


A Spider in the Bluebells

by f4nf4n



Series: Kentucky Wildflowers [2]
Category: Justified
Genre: Gen, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 77,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24529360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f4nf4n/pseuds/f4nf4n
Summary: Tim Gutterson had always considered himself a rational man.  But the latest case on his desk has forced him to uncomfortably assess his fundamental understanding of right and wrong; good and evil.  It made him feel anything but sensible.As a Deputy U.S. Marshal, does it matter whether the fugitive you're hunting is truly guilty?  Should it?
Relationships: Tim Gutterson/Original Character(s), Tim Gutterson/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Kentucky Wildflowers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772710
Comments: 77
Kudos: 26





	1. Interlude

Tim had been taking his physical fitness for granted, and now he regretted it. He'd woken up feeling ambitious this morning, and now he felt about ready to keel over as he sucked wind after a brisk six-mile run. This used to be easy. A few years ago, he wouldn't have even blinked at eight. His 30s were not treating him kindly.

When he'd woken up all bright-eyed and ready to take on the day, he had planned to follow up his run with some more body weight exercises when he returned home, but he knew already he wouldn't even make it to the 58 push-ups and 69 sit-ups that had originally gotten him into the Rangers. Maybe it was time for him to stop drinking so much and start prioritizing his health. Fuck, he really was getting old.

Tim didn't particularly care for his apartment, but he did like that it only took him about ten minutes to get to work, and he was especially grateful for the quick commute this morning. It meant he had plenty of time to take a shower and then collapse on his couch for a full hour before he had to start getting ready for work, which gave his legs the time they needed to stop itching. It was while he was sitting on the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him and cursing his hamstrings when he heard his bedroom door open. Suddenly, he wished he'd just kept running.

"Well, hello, there..."

She was blonde and tan and Tim couldn't for the life of him remember what her name was. "Hey..." he said hesitantly as she crawled into his lap. She was wearing the navy blue henley shirt he'd tossed off in a drunken frenzy the night prior, and when she leaned into him, he could smell the stale beer and smoke from the bar they'd met each other in. She leaned in to kiss him and he faked a cough to avoid it, though she was unperturbed. He held is hands out to the side, pressing his back as far into the couch as he could to no avail. She tasted like dull copper and he struggled a little not to gag when she tried to press her tongue into his mouth.

"Listen, uh..." he twisted his mind in knots trying to remember a name, any human name suitable for a female, "Ma..."

The mystery woman pulled back incredulously. "Tammy," she said, irritably.

"Yeah, I know. Uh, listen _Tammy_ , I've gotta get to work, so it's probably best if--" That was the trick. She was off him in a second, tearing off the shirt. She stood in front of him, arms crossed beneath her breasts. She was, truly, quite stunning, and for a moment he admired Drunk Tim's ability to at least make sure he woke up next to a dime, even if he had been nearly blacked out.

She stormed off, shouting "Fuck you! You were lousy, anyway!" over her shoulder and Tim breathed a sigh of relief. He stepped into bathroom in order to avoid her leaving and reemerged only when he'd heard his front door slam closed behind her.

Yes, he decided, he really did need to stop drinking so much.

#

When Tim got into work that morning, he did the same thing he'd been doing for months. Before he tucked into the drudgery of his Marshal duties, he pulled up his Internet browser and looked for information on a rescue of human trafficking victims in the state of Kentucky. Then he searched for seizure of a tractor trailer. Finally, he checked for reports of dead men in the Daniel Boone National Forest. As had been the case every day since he'd returned from his mission with Kathryn, there was nothing. No news articles, no blog posts, not even a hint from a conspiracy theorist forum. It was perplexing and frustrating. A puzzle he couldn't find the last pieces to.

Tim had made it a point to arrive early, and he walked over to the coffee pot and set it up to brew a fresh pot. He leaned back against the counter, folding his arms comfortably over his chest. The stance reminded him of naked Tammy for a second and he smiled, enjoying the mental view. Then Nelson walked in and the vision was gone.

"Good morning, Tim!" he said, far more excitedly than Tim thought appropriate for the early hour. He gave a quick two finger salute and was glad when he heard the machine beside him beep. Even if the coffee was bad, it was better than nothing.

Tim was busy finishing a follow-up report on the shooting of Doyle Bennett, a necessary step toward getting back in the field after the mandatory desk suspension that had followed. He'd been stuck in the office for a week and he couldn't wait to get back out. The sooner he could complete the paperwork, the sooner he could get away from Raylan and his loud hissing every time he moved a little too far to the left in his chair.

It had been a busy enough morning, with plenty of people coming in and out. Among the visitors, Tim had noticed David Vasquez and a self-important-looking FBI Agent bustle in about an hour prior, but they'd been holed up in the conference room with Art and Rachel since they'd come in, and he couldn't guess what they were discussing.

"Tim?" He looked up and saw Art poking his head out of the half-open door. He motioned him in and Tim leapt at the opportunity to leave his desk.

When he walked into the conference room, the air felt electric. The balding FBI Agent was looking petulant, which Tim took no small amount of satisfaction in. Vasquez was leaned back in his chair, with one arm propped up on the arm of his chair and his hand covering his mouth, which made him difficult to read.

"Take a seat, Tim," and Art gestured to an open chair opposite the other two men. Tim lowered himself into the chair carefully.

"Been a while since I've been called to the principal's office," he said.

"We have a new case we'd like your input on," Art said without acknowledging his subordinate's sarcasm. Tim furrowed his brow, wondering what type of a fugitive could possibly require his expertise. Were they tracking another Ranger? AWOL Marine? "We've got a confidential informant who turned and got an FBI Agent killed in the line of duty."

Shit, Tim thought, that was certainly one way to push a case to the top of Art's pile.

"Anything I can do to help," Tim said, curious, and he watched as the three other men in the room cast furtive glances at one another. Then Art dropped a thick file down on the table in front of Tim and he looked down at it. It took all of Tim's training and resolve not to react.

The photo paper clipped to the outside of the file staring back at him was of Kathryn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the next chapter in Tim & Kathryn's adventure together. I considered leaving this as part of In the Fields of Solidago, but it feels too much like its own story, so here we are. I hope you enjoy! :)


	2. Making a Murderer

Tim's heart was beating almost as fast as it had been after his run. He didn't want to open the folder in front of him, afraid of what might be inside. Based on that photo and what Art had just said, Kathryn was either a dead FBI Agent or she had gotten one killed. He was keenly aware of the three inquisitive sets of eyes in the room, so Tim kept his outward appearance intentionally calm as he opened the file.

Sarah Geller. 32 years old. Confidential informant for 12 years. Permanent address no more than a 15-minute drive from the Marshals' office, which irritated him for some reason. None of this made any sense.

The Agent, who had been watching Tim while silently fuming, leaned forward. "According to a report I received a little over a month ago, you were recruited to support Ms. Geller and her handler Agent Christopher Romero on a case that resulted in the deaths of three men."

Tim wasn't sure how to answer the question, so he deflected for a moment to give himself time to think, "And you are?"

"Special Agent Matthew Reed."

Tim waited for some elaboration, but none came. He decided a half-truth was the best way around Reed's question, "I was told my work on that case was classified and I am not to disclose any information it."

"Chief Mullen, if your Deputy isn't going to be cooperative, then I'm clearly wasting my time!" Agent Reed was shouting, now, and Tim could see it had piqued the interest of some of the Marshals on the other side of the glass, including Raylan.

Tim held his hands up in surrender for the second time that day and spun around in in his chair to face Art. "I'm just sayin' what I was told."

Art looked down at him, and Tim could see from his expression he knew there was something Tim wasn't saying. But what he wasn't saying was that he'd never met an Agent Romero, and he had no idea that Kathryn, or Sarah, he supposed, was not an agent at all, but a CI. His brain was still playing catch up.

Reed looked like he'd have steam coming out of his ears if he was a cartoon character. Art leaned over and flipped the file to another page. Tim looked down and saw a grisly photo of a man—Romero, he assumed—though he didn't think anyone could be blamed for not recognizing him from the picture, even if they'd ever actually met him. Romero had obviously been killed with a high caliber weapon at extremely close range, and there was little that remained of his head that wasn't in pieces.

"Agent Romero was killed," Art said as he leaned over Tim and flipped through the file, "by this man." Tim glanced down at the page. A mean-looking mugshot stared back at him accompanied by a lengthy rap sheet to complement its subject's face tats.

Vasquez leaned forward, "That's Vincent Dawson. He's a well-known, high-level hitman."

Tim kept his face neutral and expressionless, afraid he might give something away.

It was Reed's turn to interject, "Agent Romero's logs show that he was scheduled to meet Ms. Geller following a phone call with her. Instead, he walked into a trap and lost his life."

Tim spun back and forth in his chair a little, mostly because it seemed to set Agent Reed on edge even further. "While I'm very sorry for the loss of Agent Romero, I'm not sure what any of this has to do with me. I haven't seen either of them since that case you mentioned," he looked innocently over at Agent Reed.

Reed stood up, slapping his hands down on the table as he did so, "Her prints were also found on a gun used to murder several men in Daniel Boone National Forest, and her description matches that of a civilian who saw an unknown suspect in the park that night."

Vasquez watched the FBI agent carefully as he spoke once more, "We're hoping we can bring in both Geller and Dawson. We want you on this case because you've worked with her before; according to Agent Reed here, she can be difficult to predict."

Tim had to smile at that because he had certainly found that true during their time together. He definitely hadn't predicted that not only had she lied to him about her position, but she'd also gone rogue and gotten an FBI handler killed.

"How do you plan on getting them both?" he asked.

It was Art who spoke this time. "Agent Reed believes Dawson will make contact with her at her home. We're going to provide a surveillance team."

"Doesn't the FBI have a scary black van of their own?"

"Again," said Vasquez, "We are requesting that you work on this case because of your history with Ms. Geller."

"I worked with her for three days," he said, flatly. He hadn't read the report they were referring to, but he assumed any record of their interaction dead-ended in that field with Solkov, Melnik, and Popescu.

"That's more than anyone but Romero, who's dead." Agent Reed said.

"Does this mean I'm off desk duty?" Tim asked Art.

"Yes, Tim, it does."

Tim grabbed the file and stood up. "I'm assuming I can take this for review?"

All three men waved him toward the door with an open palm, almost in unison. He would have laughed if he wasn't trying so hard to keep his composure. He nodded and headed back to his desk with the folder in hand. From his chair, he watched as Vasquez and Art spoke with a highly animated Agent Reed, and he got the feeling the Feeb didn't like him much.

"What's that all about?" Raylan asked from the desk next to him.

"Oh, you know, the FBI outreach program for wayward sons-a-bitches," Tim answered, “I’m their SOB of the Month.” He looked at the picture of Kathryn again, ignoring Raylan’s irritated glare. Her hair was longer, and her expression cold. If someone had given him the photo without any context, he would have assumed it was the mugshot of someone who'd just shot someone while knocking over their convenience store. Despite her ambiguous nature, Tim thought he'd had a better read on her when they'd been together, and while she was obviously quite capable of killing—who in this line of work wasn't?—none of the information he’d received in the conference room coalesced with the woman he'd thought he'd known.

What the fuck was going on?

#

When Tim walked into his apartment that night, he had a headache. One that he cured with a stiff drink and a turkey sandwich he ate standing at his kitchen counter, hunched over the file he’d been given. The rest of the day had mostly been a blur as he’d read through the thick manilla folder while simultaneously replaying every interaction he’d had with Kathryn.

Sarah Geller, from what he could tell, was an efficient and ruthless criminal whose work as a CI had been primarily focused on narcotics offenders, which wasn’t what Kathryn had told him she did. Of course, she’d also implied she was a federal agent of some kind. Instead, it appeared Tim had been hired as a hitman to serve a vendetta against men she deemed unworthy.

Still, there was the truck and what he knew had been inside of it. He knew that her intentions, at least in that case, had seemed to be pure and good. So why was Agent Reed implying she’d executed several men with no greater purpose or cause? What had happened to the women and children they’d left behind?

Tim flipped the folder back open to the exact page he was looking for; he’d thumbed through it so many times in the preceding hours that he practically had it memorized. There, staring back at him, was a copy of the letter that had brought him and Kathryn together in the first place. FBI sealed, and signed by Agent Christopher Romero. There had obviously been some truth to what she’d told him, but it seemed peppered with enough likes lies it was nearly impossible to separate out the full truth. He wished he could talk with Romero and understand his relationship with Kathryn; why had he submitted a report that was filled with obvious falsehoods? Was he just bad at his job? Had Kathryn lied to him as well, so he had fudged the report to make himself look more competent? Or had he trusted Kathryn as much as—or perhaps even more than—Tim had?

It didn’t help that Tim had slept with the subject of this new investigation, either. Each of their conversations after the first time they’d had sex was tainted by the corresponding shift in their relationship, and now he was second-guessing her motives. He’d thought she was just frustrated by the case and had used him to work some of that frustration out; a role he was more than happy to fulfill on the occasions he had. And the last time they’d had sex, it had felt intimate and sweet. He may have even made the mistake of thinking she was attracted to him in more than just a physical sense. Now he wondered whether it had all just been part of the greater manipulation.

The thought sank down and sat heavy in his gut, so he reached for the bottle of bourbon on the counter and poured himself another drink. He certainly wouldn’t be attempting another run tomorrow morning.

When he crawled into bed several hours and a few more bourbons later, he kept thinking of the night he and Kathryn had spent in Daniel Boone Forest, leaned up against a rock face, shoulder-to-shoulder and how he had peacefully closed his eyes next to her without a second thought for his safety. He had trusted her, implicitly, and he did not think that trust had been misplaced.

Tim’s life had, he thought, made him a good judge of character. His father had kept his meanness carefully concealed from the world beyond the Gutterson household, and he had noticed even from a young age the ways in which his father had deluded not only his friends, coworkers, and even Tim’s teachers, but himself into believing he was a good man. It meant that Tim usually had a keen eye for people pulling the same long con on the world at large.

Despite knowing Kathryn was lying to him at times, or that she withheld information from him, he had never gotten the sense she was a cruel impostor. He’d never once looked at her and seen the cool mask slip away to reveal the monster underneath like he had with his father or some of the men he’d enlisted with.

Hell, Raylan reminded him more of his upbringing than Kathryn did.

He had thought he’d known her. He’d thought he could trust her with his life; he had. But now she was being accused of the greatest deception he’d ever personally faced; greater even than his father’s lack of love or understanding. It made him feel foolish for thinking of her in the intervening weeks, and it made him angry.

If Kathryn was really Sarah Geller. If she had fucked him to get him to like her so she could use him to murder people on some bullshit vigilante quest… he didn’t know what to do with that information except to stare it down and unravel it, whatever the cost.

#

The next morning, Tim was up even earlier than he’d anticipated. He’d slept poorly, with visions of dead Taliban, Romero’s exploded head, and Kathryn covered in blood intermixing in his dreams. Tim was brimming with volatile energy and while he didn’t go for a run, he decided a day of hiking might improve his mood while also offering some much-needed clarification.

After he’d pulled on his hiking gear and left a voicemail for Art on his office line, Tim piled himself into his car and began the drive back to Daniel Boone Forest.

There was no traffic yet, and the ride was smooth as the sun rose slowly over the Kentucky hills. The CD Kathryn had left was in his car, and he listened to it on a loop, half-hoping to glean some secret meaning in the lyrics, but discovering nothing new.

Once at the park, Tim set out through the woods with no real destination in mind. While he planned to see the place where they had secured the truck, and he had parked at the nearest campsite so he could walk through the trees where Kathryn had beaten their last pursuer to death, he had mostly chosen to come here to clear his head and think without distraction. There were too many other things to look at in the office, or even at his home, and he needed unclouded vision to work through his muddied thoughts.

When he’d come here with Kathryn, there had been a crisp breeze, but today it was muggy and hot. He started sweating the moment he stepped out of his car. As he left the campground and found himself wandering deeper into the less trafficked forest beyond, he felt some of the tension he’d been holding in his body ease. There were few things as peaceful as being alone in nature, and he was glad he had taken today to investigate some of the information he’d been given on his own.

His goal, aside from retracing some of their steps, was to hopefully speak with a park ranger who might be able to tell him more about the incident as Reed had described it. But for now, he would enjoy the snapping of branches beneath his feet and the buzzing of insects in the trees.

#

“It was a real strange situation.” Tim was sitting in a comfortably air-conditioned ranger station and Ranger Grady Warren was pouring him a cup of coffee. “We got a call about unusual activity from some anonymous tipster the State Police traced to an out-of-state payphone. When they got out there, they found a coupla dead bodies and a truck full of people. I don’t know if they were illegals or what,” he said.

“What did the Staties say?”

“They said for us to close down the road and shut the hell up.” Tim could see that Ranger Grady was pretty peeved about that.

“What, they thought you couldn’t keep up?”

“Fucking troopers, man, they always think they’re better’n us. As if I couldn’t have joined the Academy if I wanted to.” Tim appraised Grady’s rather impressive girth and wondered if maybe he was overstating his abilities a bit. “I can’t say for sure, but I think I saw some Feds come in at one point, too. By the time they let us open the road back up, everything was gone. Never heard nothin’ about it on the news, either.”

Tim nodded, already knowing that to be the case himself. The fact that the FBI had seemingly shut down any media coverage of what should have been a huge win for them was part of why he was here. Even if the deaths of those men and the acquisition of the truck had happened as the result of a rogue CI, there was no reason they couldn’t have spun the story to their advantage. Unless they were waiting to bring in Sarah Geller first for some reason.

“Who spoke to the caller?”

“A young kid named Spencer. He quit a few weeks ago; got an easier job at some store near his house. Said he didn’t like all the snakes.”

“He say anything about the caller? Maybe he had an accent, or something else stuck out?” Tim assumed Romero had called in the tip anonymously, but he couldn’t figure out why.

“Didn’t say much except it was a woman.”

Tim got back in his car and tugged his shirt off over his head. It was soaked through from his hike back. After his talk with Grady, Tim had wound his way through the foliage to find the bend in the road where they had descended on a tractor trailer full of trafficking victims, and replayed the evening in his mind.

Whoever had made the call to the Rangers must have been the person Kathryn had been speaking to by phone from inside the truck. It hadn’t been Romero, so who else was she working with?

Tim rolled his windows down and decided to make the drive home shirtless in order to give his clothing a little time to dry. He wished he’d thought to pack a spare.

The CD was still playing, and Tim listened to the same song he’d heard a hundred times by now; the one that had become his favorite from the album during the intervening weeks.

_There was love inside the basement where that woman used to lie  
In a sleeping bag we shared upon the floor most every night…_

He couldn’t help it. The thought of a spare shirt in his go bag and the song made Tim think of Kathryn in a way that made him uncomfortable and nostalgic, two things he didn’t much appreciate given the current circumstances. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, but all he saw was Kathryn’s face just inches from his own.

Tim pressed the eject button, pulled the disc out and flung it out the window. He watched in the rear view as it shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.


	3. Deputy Drudgery

Tim hated surveillance. Not only was it dull as shit, but you were always cramped up tight with too many people and their smelly lunches, pissing in a cup overnight and generally feeling scuzzy and unshowered, even if you weren't. Setting up outside Sarah Geller's house required a van in the back and a car one block over at the front of the house. Her home was a single story, which he found unsurprising, and when he looked at it, his palms started sweating. The entire front was windows, and she didn't have any curtains. The thought of being that exposed all the time made his neck itch like he was breaking out in hives.

The one good thing about all those windows was that it made it easy for them to see in, especially since there was a vacant lot across the street from her address. They could park the next block over and still have an almost perfect view of much of the house.

The front door sat to the right of the windows, up a couple of steps with no porch. The front room was clearly the main living area, with a plush green couch that looked like she'd stolen it from the Mad Men set and a TV in one corner. If you were inside, you could walk straight through from the front door to the dining area, where there was a small computer desk and chair along the wall. Alternately, you could cross left through the living room and into the kitchen, which connected to the same dining space around the back. The bathroom was situated between the living room and the dining area, but they couldn't see into it because there were no windows that faced the outside. Her bedroom was on the left side of the house at the front, butted up against the small garage. There was a basement, too, and they couldn't see into that either because all the tiny windows were frosted.

The yard in front was little more than a small patch of grass, but the plantings nearest the house provided a bright splash of blue and gold with marigolds and bluebells. The back yard was modest, and she had a small grill stashed back there, though it looked mostly unused. Rachel, Nelson, and resident IT asshat Chris were currently parked in a van along the street behind the house. Their position allowed them to see through the sliding glass doors (the thought of even more floor to ceiling windows made Tim question Kathryn's understanding of security) into the kitchen and the dining room.

Even as he watched Art open his tupperware filled with garlicky pasta Linda had packed for him, Tim had to admit he was glad he wasn't stuck with Chris and Nelson. Poor Rachel. She didn't deserve that.

Tim and Art were currently parked next to the vacant lot across from the front of the house, providing them with a perfect view of the living room, and a slanted view of the kitchen, which looked like it had a nice-sized island and stools set up next to it, though he couldn't see much else. "Anyone take a look in the garage, yet?" he asked.

Art shook his head, shoveling more pasta into his mouth. "No, but we know she has a blue 2008 Volkswagon Eos registered in her name, and I doubt there's room for much more than that in that little thing."

"There's plenty of room for weapons," Tim shot back quickly.

"Well, let's hope she keeps her arsenal in the bathroom or the basement. At least then we'll see it coming."

#

The whole thing felt strange. After he'd returned from his day trip to Daniel Boone, Tim had been dragged into a strategy meeting with Art, Rachel, and the FBI Dick Reed. He had mostly checked out; a stakeout was a stakeout was a stakeout and he didn't understand why it took almost four hours and all of his lunch break to figure out the logistics. He had mostly amused himself by watching Raylan try and pretend not to feel left out while he sat, alone, in the bullpen.

He twirled back and forth in his chair, pretending to listen while he turned over and over everything he knew about Kathryn in his mind. He was curious to see where she lived, to bring the total picture of her into clearer focus and hopefully understand why she was being accused of murdering a crew of human traffickers. Most importantly, Tim wanted to know where the victims from that truck had ended up. Nothing about this smelled right to Tim, and after speaking with Grady, he was concerned about the safety of the people they had saved together. Because no matter what else Kathryn had done, he knew they had done something good that night; he could feel it in his bones. No one he had spoken with at either the Park or from the State Police knew anything about the outcome of that case, and he had the feeling there was a much larger story to be told there.

The only bit of information he found even mildly interesting from their meeting was that the house Kathryn lived in belonged to Stephanie Riley, LLC and was rented out to her as Sarah Geller. The information listed for that real estate company was a dead end except for a phone number, which simply looped them through to the same voicemail message each time they called. Someone was going to get sent on a wild goose chase trying to find whoever was behind the pretty little website, and Tim was glad that for once it wouldn't be him. It seemed his previous work with Kathryn truly was valued, so he was almost guaranteed to be sitting on the house as much as possible. It also helped that if their man Dawson did arrive, everyone else involved would feel safer with him there to take the shot.

Still, he tucked the Stephanie Riley name away for safe keeping because had a feeling it might become important later. Kathryn, Sarah, Stephanie... he was losing track of what to call her even in his own thoughts. For simplicity, he decided on Kathryn in his head and Ms. Geller in his mouth, in order to avoid strange looks from his colleagues. He didn't think it would do him much good to try and explain why he was calling their suspect by an unlisted alias would do much for his already tenuous relationship with SA Reed.

#

Once the geniuses in the conference room had meticulously strategized how on Earth to park two vehicles at either end of a suspect's house, Tim watched in fascination and delight as Art gave Raylan the order to stay at the office—"Do not move your skinny ass from this office, do you hear me?"—and hold down the fort while he joined his officers in the field. The confusion and disgust on Raylan's face would have made a beautiful photo for Tim's fridge, if only he'd thought to capture it on camera.

They'd pulled in separately over the course of a day. Tim was sure that Kathryn would make at least the van behind her house relatively quickly, but Reed had insisted that a robust presence was the only way to bring in Dawson. Tim found it ludicrous that they were just waiting and hoping for a skilled murderer to magically appear at the house of someone he'd been contracted by. In Tim's opinion, a systematic manhunt would be much more suited to the task before them. However, he couldn't say he wasn't intrigued by the prospect of watching Kathryn in her daily life. He was honestly hoping to discover something supremely flawed about her personality during the course of the investigation, so it would make it easier for him to press the remnants of her from his mind, especially now.

The night after they pulled in, Tim took the early morning shift while Art napped quietly next to him. He was not at all surprised to hear that Rachel was taking the same shift for the back of the house. A breath before 5AM, he watched as the light switched on in the bedroom. A few minutes later the windows were dark again and Kathryn appeared in the living room in workout clothes. He watched as she setup a yoga mat and began flowing through complicated shapes in the dark. He remembered she had said she did yoga nearly every morning and he found himself surprised that she had told the truth. What really caught his attention, though, was the fact that she spent most of the practice with her eyes closed in a room without a light on.

After her yoga session, he watched as she tugged on a pair of sneakers and stepped out of the house before setting off down the street in a jog. Unsure of her route, Tim was glad for the expertly tinted windows on the car he was sitting in. A few moments after Kathryn rounded the corner, he heard a van door slide closed and he just caught a glimpse of Rachel as she casually jogged off in the same direction.

This time in the morning, Tim soon learned, was the only time that Kathryn's house was quiet. From the time she returned to her run to the time she walked into the bathroom at eleven, there was always something on. Music or the television, or god forbid, sometimes both. He remembered how she had hummed to herself in the woods, how she'd even had music playing that Saturday morning in her motel room when he'd walked in. The thought of noise all the time gave him a headache; he needed silence, and he found himself increasingly glad they hadn't managed to get any listening devices into her house, yet.

Each morning that followed was exactly the same, and according to Rachel, Kathryn had run the exact same 3.5 mile route each morning, never wavering even one footstep out of line. By the third day, Tim was sure she knew she was being watched. Even people of a meticulous nature didn't do the exact same thing every single morning. She was trying to establish an unbreakable alibi; either for a crime she'd already committed or one she was planning to. Rachel agreed with him when they briefly crossed paths at the office on Friday afternoon. Raylan leaned obviously over the partition between his desk and Rachel's, desperate to be included in the investigation. Tim made sure to be as obtuse as possible whenever Raylan asked after their subject.

Watching Kathryn turned out to be somewhat difficult as he was attempting to conceal the extent of their relationship. He and Art were often both watching her during the day, and he had to be sure not to stare too hard or bite his thumb while they watched her go about her day. Art liked to play at doddery sometimes so people would underestimate him, but he was just as observant and smart as he'd ever been, even if he'd physically lost a step.

The first time Tim had nearly stepped in it was that very first day. He'd taken the early AM and then he and Art had taken turns stretching their legs. It was about 11PM and Tim was reading chapter seven of _The Two Towers_ when Art mentioned that she was heading into the bathroom. They'd been calling out her location all day to one another, so it wasn't anything particularly striking, but Tim glanced up and watched as, indeed, she filed into the bathroom holding a folded towel over her arm. Fifteen minutes later, when Art said she was coming out, Tim looked up again and had to struggle not to drop his book.

There was Kathryn, wet hair piled on top of her head, brushing her teeth. And wearing his shirt.

If Art noticed any change in Tim's breathing or posture, he was smart enough not to mention it, yet. Tim felt his body go absolutely still as his eyes remained firmly fixed on the Grizzlies t-shirt, wondering what it meant. Maybe she just hadn't done laundry lately and it was the last big shirt she had, or maybe she was just too practical to let a good shirt go to waste. Maybe she had somehow made him in the car already and was wearing it to taunt him.

Maybe she'd been thinking of him just as much as he'd thought about her since they parted ways.

After a few moments, Kathryn disappeared into her bedroom and the light flicked off just after midnight. Tim flipped the pages of his book, knowing he would have to go back and re-read them because retaining information was not something he was capable of at the moment.

The same time the following night, Tim made sure to have his book tucked away so he could observe Kathryn without hindrance. Once again, she had entered the bathroom around 11PM and emerged wearing the Grizzlies shirt. She'd done the same the next night and the next, too.

She'd worn the shirt to bed every night so far, and she'd done laundry twice since they'd begun observing her.

#

Tim got to go home early that Friday to freshen up, get some sleep, and return fresh as a daisy, so he didn't know for sure whether she'd worn the shirt that night, but he was willing to bet money that she had.

As he stood in the shower, massaging shampoo vigorously into his hair, he attempted to quiet his anxious inner voice by reminding himself that the shirt probably meant nothing. After all, it had meant nothing to him when he'd given it to her; it was just a free shirt he kept as a spare in his bag that he hadn't needed at the time. There was no reason that Kathryn might have attached meaning to an article of clothing he had literally thrown at her from across dingy motel room.

Saturday began much the same as every day that week had, but rather than settling in at the computer in her dining room, Kathryn dressed in comfortable clothes and spent the day cleaning her house.

"Who woulda thought her outfit at the office was actually her dressed up?" Art asked. Tim gave an exaggerated chuckle, but he would be lying if he said he didn't like the way she looked now, wearing a tank top and sweatpants that rode low because they were at least two sizes too large for her.

Watching her clean was hypnotic. Tim liked to think of himself as a relatively clean and tidy person, but she put his weekly vacuuming routine to shame. A few hours in to her disinfecting marathon, Art picked up the radio. "Rachel?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Is this how all women clean?" he asked, the bare ghost of a smile dancing across his lips. Tim could feel the sigh through the dead air of the walkie.

"No, Art, that's how a crazy person cleans."

Art put the walkie back down and watched as Kathryn pulled out her couch to scrub the baseboard behind it.

"Maybe she's trying to get rid of DNA evidence," he said, leaned back against his seat and chewing a large wad of tobacco.

"No, I think she's just a clean freak," Tim said without thinking. Art looked over at him, curiosity piqued. "When we first met in her motel room to go over that case, she had a caddy of her own cleaning supplies with her. Said she liked a cleaner space than the motel could offer."

Art wrinkled his face. "Then why not stay at a better motel?"

"'Budgetary restrictions,'" Tim said, putting his air quotes to good use, and Art chuckled.

Kathryn's cleaning frenzy took nearly the entire day and included a lengthy trip outside to mow the lawn and weed her modest garden. When she'd opened the garage to get the mower out, Tim had caught a brief glimpse of the car Art had mentioned, but nothing else. He wondered whey she even had a car, when she appeared to never leave her house.

Something else Tim had learned about Kathryn over the course of the week was that she seemed to enjoy cooking. He found it strange, though, how she would make giant batches of food and eat the same thing for several days in a row. The thought of eating pasta salad for six meals straight made his stomach feel a little sour, though he couldn't argue with the utility of it. On Saturday, Kathryn showered and changed into the Grizzlies shirt early before setting about making a meal for herself. Then, she tucked her legs up under on the couch and settled in to watch a movie. It was the first time she hadn't eaten at the kitchen island, and he wondered whether she had simply forgotten that she was being watched, or if this was some new part of her weekly ritual.

Tim was tired by the time she'd finished her meal, and as he watched her curl up with a blanket, resting her head on the arm of the couch to continue watching her film, he felt his eyelids heavily droop, wishing he could be lying on her comfortable looking couch, too, instead of reclining in a car that smelled like garlic and using the dashboard as a footrest.


	4. The Girl at the Rock Show

Sunday was at least different.

Kathryn woke up at the same time, but there was yoga, no running. Instead, she made herself some coffee and stood in her living room, looking out at a gloomy morning filled with drizzling rain. Tim wondered about the change in routine, but was mostly just excited for some variation. Rachel called him over the radio to ask what she was doing when she didn't see her leave for her usual morning jog. "Just staring out the window with a coffee. Maybe an existential crisis?"

"If only," she said. "Then maybe we could get the hell out of here." Tim smiled; glad to know Rachel was as frustrated by the assignment as he was.

After her coffee, Kathryn went to her kitchen and switched on the lights before donning an apron. Tim could only catch glances of her moving through the space, but it looked like she was going to bake something. Art was still snoozing softly next to him, so he stayed on the radio with Rachel. "Anything good?" he asked.

"I don't know, maybe a cake?" Rachel's hesitation suggested she wasn't much of a baker herself, and Tim wondered if Joe's birthday cakes were store bought.

Even from the car two streets over, Tim could hear that Kathryn was already listening to loud and angry music. He remembered the album she'd played for him in the motel and he could feel a headache brewing at the memory. 

Whatever Kathryn was making, it was obviously a complicated recipe. She'd been in the kitchen for more than two hours by the time Art shook himself awake. He asked for a status update, and Tim let him know that Ms. Geller hadn't left her house, but was instead occupied in the kitchen. And then, for the first time all week, her phone rang.

The FBI claimed they had been unable to put any listening devices in her house prior to the beginning of surveillance, but they had managed to tap her known cellphone. Tim had reservations that she would even use it, having seen her with at least one burner during their time together, so he was taken by surprise when it rang.

He imagined the comical look on Chris's face as he jumped to life in the van, prepared to do the one thing he was brought for and hopefully trace the call back to its source.

Kathryn wiped her hands on her apron and switched off her music before she answered. The audio from the call came over the radio to Tim and Art, more than a little distorted.

"Hello?" It was the first time Tim had heard her use a normal greeting when answering the phone. Usually it had been a terse 'yes?'

"Happy Anniversary, baby." It was a woman's voice, smooth and low, that came crackling over the walkie. Tim was surprised and tried not to show it, though from Art's reaction, he seemed equally taken aback.

"Thank you," Kathryn said, a wide smile spreading across her face.

"What are you making?"

"Pistachio almond cake soaked in rosemary syrup with lavender-lemon buttercream."

There was a laugh from the other end of the line. "That sounds like a nightmare."

"I like it."

"I know. Have a great day. I love you."

"Love you, too."

And then the call ended and Chris let out a frustrated breath over the radio. "Did you get it?" Art asked.

"What do you think?" came the terse and irritable response.

"Goddammit."

Tim sat back, chewing on the skin of his thumb, trying to think back over his interactions with Kathryn. Of course, there was no way he could have known whether she had a girlfriend, or if she'd gotten one during their time apart. But it felt like a strange call, regardless. The cadence felt wrong for something romantic.

"She ever mention a girlfriend?" Art asked. Tim shook his head. "Well, shit."

Art resolved to call SA Reed to inquire about any personal relationships that may have been left out of Kathryn's file. Tim could see that Art was growing weary of their assignment as well, and he hoped that meant it would soon be over. The deeper he got into this case, the more he thought it would be best to extricate himself completely from the orbit of Sarah Geller and Kathryn both. He was becoming increasingly fond of the idea of putting her in the rear view as he had that CD she'd given him.

Though he supposed he couldn't hope that she'd fly away in pieces.

#

Despite Kathryn's initial deviation from her usual schedule, Sunday had proved to be even more boring.

"How long has she been in there?" Art asked.

"Since 7 or so."

"Jesus."

"I'll tell ya, though, it looks good," came Nelson's response over the radio.

"It looks like something you'd see at a wedding," Rachel confirmed.

Tim wished he could see into the kitchen better, but he and Art had certainly drawn the short end of this particular stick. While their fellow Marshals got to watch Kathryn bake what was apparently a stunning and elaborate dessert, they were looking at an empty living room with only a few glimpses of a person wandering through their kitchen increasingly covered in flour and sugar dust. And it had been this way for more than five hours. How anyone had that kind of patience for a fucking cake, Tim would never know.

"Woulda been easier to just hit up the Kroger," Tim said.

"Ain't that the truth? I told Leslie ten years ago it wasn't worth the trouble. All tastes the same to me, anyway."

"I don't know, Chief, this looks pretty enticing. Wish I could get a slice." There was the sound of Rachel smacking Nelson. "Ow! What?"

Art turned the radio off.

"You think our mystery caller will show tonight?"

Tim shrugged. "Hopefully."

Art watched him thoughtfully. "You sure you're hopeful?" Tim ignored the teasing and rolled his eyes. Art continued, "What was she like to work with?"

"Frustrating," Tim said. "She was never very forthcoming with information, and she's worse than brusque. I'm glad I don't work with her on the regular."

Tim was aware of Art's scrutinizing stare, so he was careful to maintain as impartial an outward facade as he could. "She's pretty, though," Art said.

Tim shrugged. "Her personality more than makes up for that." Even as he said it, Tim knew the words didn't have any bite and Art would likely see through them. Still, he had to try. Any implication that their relationship had been more than professional would raise questions. Art had surely realized as soon as he'd read the case file that Tim's 'vacation days' had overlapped with the killing spree Kathryn was accused of in Daniel Boone. He was sure, too, that Art had read about the use of a sniper's rifle. Tim's current hope was that everyone assumed Romero was somehow involved, and that was why he'd been killed.

It wouldn't be difficult for Art to put those pieces together in the right way, though, especially if Tim provided any indication that he had been fond of Kathryn. Was still fond of Kathryn? He wasn't sure anymore; he seemed to waiver on this point every few hours or so.

They lapsed into a contemplative silence, each pursuing their own lines of internal inquiry. They didn't perk up for nearly an hour, when someone approached the house.

Art flipped the radio back on. "We have someone making contact at the front," he said. "Looks like a delivery person, but stay on the line."

"Copy," said Rachel.

Tim watched as the kid walked up to the house. It wasn't Dawson, that was for sure. This person was a foot too short and his face sported a splash of acne instead of tattoos.

In the end, it was everything it appeared to be; Kathryn had a pizza delivered. She hadn't made a phone call, so they had to assume she'd made the order from her laptop, or that someone else had placed it for her. Maybe the woman who had called. Either way, they couldn't rule out the fact that the delivery might have a deeper purpose, though they couldn't confirm anything, yet.

#

Art was taking point around dinner time. They'd watched absolutely nothing happen all day except Kathryn eating some pizza and enjoying a slice of cake. She was in the bathroom, now, and Art's cellphone rang.

"Hello?" Tim watched as Art pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know, Raylan, did you try looking in the cabinet?" Tim smirked as Art had a realization. "What are you even doing there, it's a goddamn Sunday."

Tim imagined Raylan's response, _'Justice never sleeps'_ or _'Criminals don't believe in weekends.'_ In all likelihood, he just plain didn't have anywhere else to be.

"I'll send somebody over to help, but Raylan, I am not happy about it."

Tim chuckled a little, but that quickly faded to a frown as Art turned to him and said, "I need you to stop by the courthouse."

So Tim went to the office. He scrambled out of the car and over to the vehicle they'd been using to get some much needed time at home when they could, and drove back into downtown Lexington, irritated all the way. When he got there, Tim found that Raylan was asking after a simple prisoner transfer form, and he was infuriated. "What the fuck, Raylan," he said as he stormed over to the file cabinet and pulled a pre-printed copy from the folder marked with MA-PS-013 and shoved it into the lanky man's hands with more force than necessary.

Raylan flinched in earnest because of his still-healing wound, but Tim thought he maybe oversold the movement.

"So... uh... how's the stakeout going?" he asked, feigning disinterest.

"Jesus, Raylan, are you really that desperate for some stimulation?"

Raylan shrugged, sitting back in his chair and propping his feet up on his desk. "Winona is out of town," he said.

"It's boring as hell, so I guess not much different from your week here."

Raylan appraised Tim and he didn't like it. Despite Raylan's penchant for being obtuse, he was often more adept at recognizing social indicators than Tim was. It was annoying, and he had a bad feeling that only got worse the longer Raylan stared at him.

"Oh, I don't know. I imagine watching your girlfriend without her knowing about is probably a pretty okay place to be. Might even be a bit of a turn on." Raylan looked coyly over at Tim from beneath his hat, waiting for his words to elicit a response.

"Ah, Raylan, you're gonna have to do better than that. Everybody knows you're more my type."

Raylan smiled, hitching his hands together over his stomach.

"You were at Daniel Boone with her, weren't you?"

Tim didn't flinch. "Nope."

Raylan stood up from his desk and walked loosely around to lean against the front of it, facing down Tim who was leaned against Nelson's desk across the aisle. "You know, Tim, it's been a long week here at the office. Not a whole lot going on, and Art wouldn't even let me leave for a prison transfer. So I killed some time by reading the Geller case file and--"

Tim cut him off. "You read a case file? Now you're just pullin' my leg."

Raylan all but rolled his yes. "I read the Geller case file and I checked up on a few other things." Tim stiffened slightly, knowing that Raylan sticking his nose in anything could only lead to trouble. "While I was in Miami, you took a few days off, am I right?" Tim didn't move; this was a goddamn trap and he knew it. "Well, I know you did because I found the paperwork for it. And I also know that the same rifle was used at two locations; the construction site where you are on record as being the sniper and the Daniel Boone blood bath. Now, I don't know much about your girlfriend, but I'd wager she ain't as good a shot as you are, and a coupla those men were dropped by someone who certainly knew their way around an M110. There's no way she was working alone."

"Coulda been Romero," he said, "or maybe Dawson."

Raylan smirked. "Didn't you tell Art you went camping? Lotta good campsites up at Daniel Boone, if I recall."

"I was up at Hoosier," Tim said.

"No, you weren't."

The two men stared at each other, neither willing to give a centimetre. Tim's mind raced, trying to think of a way out of Raylan's logic. He had never in his life been so grateful to feel his cellphone buzz in his pocket.

"Yeah?"

It was Art sounding just a little south of frantic, "She's on the move."

Tim was surprised to hear Kathryn was leaving her home for the first time in nearly a week, but he was also entirely unsure why Art was calling him about it. "Okay... you following her?"

"I can't. The battery died in this impounded piece of shit. The fucking thing won't start."

"Shit. What do you want me to do?" He knew Art would prefer to keep the tech van on site if at all possible.

"She took a cab, so we know where she's headed. Buster's Billiards & Backroom."

"I know it," Tim said. He'd been to the place a few times for a beer after work or to see a show. It was a dingy little joint known for an eclectic slate of performers that encompassed everything from country music to jazz and punk. It was only about a five or seven minute drive from the courthouse.

"Get there and call me if you see her. If you don't, we're in the shit."

Tim snapped the phone closed and regarded his office mate coolly.

"Sorry, Raylan, but I have actual work to do."

Raylan stayed leaned against the desk, mouth still turned up in a ghostly smile that made Tim's skin crawl. He turned on his heels and headed out of the office, but he could feel Raylan's eyes boring into his back as he went. He refused to turn around and he decided to take the stairs two at a time to avoid any chance he'd have to wait for the elevator in Raylan's line of sight. Apparently his co-worker was not only a capable Deputy Marshal, he could actually be good at his job when he was sufficiently bored and without distraction.

Tim was pretty sure he was extremely well fucked.

#

Tim already had a headache. Of all the goddamn places Kathryn had to go, why here? He felt uncomfortably out of place and he was worried she'd spot him in a second because he looked it. It hadn't been difficult for him to get in, at least. A little flash of the badge and the scrawny teenager at the box office had all but given him a backstage pass.

A large part of Tim had wished he hadn't, and an even larger part wished he could order a very strong drink at the bar, but he kept reminding himself he was on duty and needed to stay sharp. This was a far less than ideal situation. With no backup and this many additional people, it wouldn't be difficult for her to manage to slip away if he wasn't on his A game.

He'd positioned himself around the bar, behind enough people that hopefully his face would fade into the background, but close enough to the single entrance that he would see her if she walked in. Some punk band from Brooklyn was apparently headlining, but a local indie rock group was playing now. The bass felt like it was thrumming directly through his nervous system, and the screaming shredded into his ear drums. He wanted about four shots of bourbon and twelve Advil.

Where the fuck was she?

He was just about to call Art and tell him they really were in the shit, when he spotted her auburn hair coming through the door. She appeared to be alone, though he had now way of knowing whether she was meeting someone inside. She was dressed very differently than he'd seen her before, and it made her look about a decade younger. She had changed into a pair of black denim cut off shorts and some high-top converse sneakers with a black tank top. The outfit showed off her tattoos and made her look extremely pale. It reminded him of the small group of goth kids from his high school, except for her lack of makeup.

He texted Art because he knew his boss would never be able to make out his words against all the background noise. "Eyes on target."

Art texted back immediately, "Call if you need backup. Locals on stand-by."

Tim stuffed his phone back in his pocket and rolled up the sleeves of his sweater. There were too many people in here, and he was sweating uncomfortably in his jeans. It was a muggy, hot day unto itself, nevermind in a confined space with a bunch of sweaty, loudmouthed strangers. Suddenly Kathryn's time traveling outfit made a lot of sense.

Tim had bought a hat from the merch table on his way in, and he pulled it low over his forehead, trying to blend in as much as possible. He hoped the beanie would be sufficient camouflage against the sea of black asymmetrical haircuts, but he couldn't help feeling hopelessly exposed, regardless.

Tim watched as Kathryn ordered herself a stiff, dark drink and he licked his lips in envy. She seemed content to stay at the bar while the openers finished their set, and he watched her rebuff no fewer than five young men interested in buying her a second beverage. When the local band wrapped up, Kathryn ordered a second drink, tossed it back unceremoniously, and then made her way as close to the stage as she could, adeptly wriggling her way through the crowd. Tim moved in tandem, spotting up along the wall near a bouncer after he showed him his badge.

Tim was not prepared for when the music started.

He'd been to what he thought were punk shows, but the energy of this was entirely different. It turned out Kathryn had placed herself directly in the middle of a mosh pit, and the violence that entailed was wholly unexpected. When the band took the stage, there was no preamble. They immediately slammed on their instruments and launched into a shrieking ballad as their frontman screamed " ** _I TOOK A BEATING_** ," and continued on from there. Even off to the edge of the venue, Tim was not safe from all the raucous jostling.

He watched as Kathryn jumped and punched and swung around. She both delivered and absorbed her fair share of blows. And while Tim may not have understood the music, he certainly grasped the appeal of what she was doing in the crowd. How many times had he started a bar brawl just for the chance to hit something?

Suddenly, some of Kathryn's more disparate characteristics seemed to solidify. It turned out she was just as angry as he was, and that was something he could work with. Kathryn was covered in sweat and exuding giddy delight. He could see light bruises starting to form on her upper arms and someone must have hit her in the mouth because her lower lip was split and bleeding. He remembered the injuries she had sustained the last time he'd seen her, and he wondered if she had derived pleasure from them in the same way she seemed to be pleased by her current predicament.

Despite his best efforts, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he watched her.

#

Tim kept her in his sights easily through the entire show and an encore, and he was relieved when he watched her head straight for the exit following the last song. He needed water. And a shower.

But first he had to tail her, hopefully back to her house. He climbed into his car, watching carefully as Kathryn walked several blocks from the venue before attempting to flag down a cab. He was glad for the sluggish traffic because it gave him time to sneak around and get behind the taxi that eventually picked her up. They were headed in the direction of her neighborhood, and Tim allowed himself to relax a modicum as he envisioned a smooth ride, and Art letting him head home for a few hours to freshen up. He was sure no one, not even Art, would want to be trapped in a car with him in his current fetid state.

Tim felt his phone buzz and he expected a simple response to his "She's heading back" text. Instead, Art was calling him.

"Hello?"

"Someone just entered her house. We think it might be Dawson."

"Shit."

Well, there went any chance he might've had for a shower.


	5. An Inconvenient Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussion of past sexual abuse.

Tim's heart was thrumming wildly in his chest, the anticipation of the what was coming nearly overwhelmed his senses. He knew if he looked at his reflection, his pupils would be blown wide, and he could feel each breath coming shorter and faster the closer he got to his intended destination. If Dawson was indeed at Kathryn's home, he was certain there was about to be some amount of bloodshed. The only question that remained was whose would be spilled.

Tim had been tailing Kathryn's taxi from the concert. It was a mercifully short drive, though slightly drawn out because of the traffic near the venue. It was approaching midnight, and he was not at all sure of the plan that was about to unfold. The Marshals wouldn't move on the house until Kathryn was inside. Art was afraid their presence might spook her too soon and she would get away without being apprehended. They also, technically, needed her to engage with Dawson first to establish they were working together; Vasquez had made that clear. Tim ground his molars together in frustration.

A few blocks north of Kathryn's address, Tim turned right and raced up two blocks before hooking a left and traveling along a perpendicular street. He threw the car in park at the nearest cross street and booked it on foot toward the unmarked car Art was still sitting in as he drew his weapon. He stopped short, ducking behind the house across the way as Kathryn's taxi pulled up in front of her darkened property. She emerged and walked toward the front entrance, pulling her keys from her pocket. She mounted the steps and reached for the screen door handle, but something caught her eyes and she stopped short. Tim watched as she stared at the door thoughtfully before turning around and walking back down the steps.

Something had spooked her, and that might mean they were losing their opportunity to bring her in. He imagined Art losing his shit on the radio, but he was too far away to hear him and dared not risk exposing himself to Kathryn now. Instead, he watched as she opened the garage door from the outside and entered. While it was possible she was about to hop in her car and make her escape, Tim's gut told him she was instead confirming his suspicion that she kept weapons stored in the attached carport. He used the momentary blindspot created by the garage to make his way stealthily across the street and Kathryn's lawn, tucking himself close to the front corner of the house, ensuring he would be the first Marshal through the door.

Tim strained his hearing, listening for the smallest of sounds. He was grateful that Kathryn had apparently left the garage door open because the noise of it closing would have obscured any indication he might be able to glean about her movements. He heard the soft _click_ of a deadbolt being unlocked and the sound of a door being carefully opened. An instant later, a single gunshot pierced through the quiet evening followed by a pained scream.

Tim rounded the corner, throwing open the screen door and kicking in the wooden one behind it in one swift motion. He was vaguely aware of Art moving from the car up the block, but he didn't wait for the older man to arrive before entering the house swiftly. He calculated that the entrance from the garage was likely in the kitchen, so he swooped through the hallway from the living room into the dining area behind, and approached the kitchen from the back. A light flicked on just as he rounded the corner, weapon at the ready, and he came face-to-face with Kathryn. She was standing in the kitchen in front of a door left ajar that lead to the garage, gun raised to his eye level. On the floor across from her, on the other side of the counter where she took her meals, was a man—definitely not Dawson—crumpled on the floor, moaning and grabbing at his shoulder, a .22 not far from his reach on the tile. Tim walked over to the weapon and kicked it away.

Tim watched as recognition dawned across Kathryn's face. He noticed her index finger laid gently along the barrel of her gun, much as it had been when she'd threatened him on that dirt road. He was taking no chances; his finger already rested on the trigger.

A slow, affectionate smile stretched the corners of her mouth in what Tim perceived as a genuine expression of warmth. "Deputy Gutterson. It's nice to see you again."

Tim held eye contact. "I'm not here for him, Ms. Geller," he said, and he watched as something minute in Kathryn's expression hardened; shifted away from the brief flutter of happiness he'd seen just a moment ago, replaced by something dark and familiar.

She moved quickly, aiming her gun toward the other kitchen entrance as Art walked in. "Sarah Geller, Deputy U.S. Marshals. Drop your weapon."

Tim noticed Rachel as she came up and stood at the back entrance, and he hoped Nelson was smart enough to have positioned himself outside the garage door. Kathryn took a moment to process the armed Marshals surrounding her as the man on the floor shouted, "Somebody call a fuckin' ambulance!"

At the same moment not-Dawson was shouting, Kathryn made eye contact with Tim again. "I'm sorry," she said, and she raised her arms to fire a single shot into the kitchen light without looking at it.

Everything was dark and chaotic in an instant. Rachel shot out the glass door and the man on the floor stood, trying to run over Art on his way to the front exit. Tim could hear the scuffle, but he could barely make out the outline of the two men as they grappled with each other in the doorway. Tim heard a motor starting as Rachel rushed forward to help Art, so he quickly retraced his steps, hastening toward the front door in an adrenaline-fueled sprint. He exited the house just as Kathryn, atop a black motorcycle, took off in the opposite direction of downtown Lexington. Nelson raced along the far side of the house, but he was much too slow.

Tim could have taken the shot. He knew he would have easily hit her at that distance, but he found himself instead racing toward his vehicle, keys in hand as he holstered his weapon. He leapt in the car, eyes still trained on Kathryn's increasingly small form in the distance as he threw the vehicle into gear. He sped across the abandoned lot, kicking up dirt as he watched lights flickering on in the surrounding houses one-by-one. As he turned onto the street Kathryn had taken, Tim saw Art in the front yard of the house, lights in the living room now ablaze behind him, silhouetting him and Rachel with their captive in handcuffs. Tim barely registered the confused look on his Chief's face before he was racing off in the night hoping he wasn't too far behind to catch her.

#

Tim had tailed her easily to I-75, but she took off like a shot once she hit the straightaway of the highway and he was afraid he'd lost her. His only saving grace was that there had been an accident not too far south, and he'd seen her motorcycle pull off at the exit toward Route 25. He'd been a few minutes behind her, but as he he was driving on 25, he happened to look over to his right and noticed a black motorcycle pulling into a dingy-looking motel parking lot on a road that looped back close to the highway. It was honestly pure luck that he'd found her, but he wasn't about to complain. He didn't know whether she'd made his vehicle during his pursuit, so he decided the best course of action was to park elsewhere and walk over. Her motorcycle, which was not on the list of vehicles registered to her, had a tinted license plate shield, so he knew there was no way any other LEOs would know what to look for, even if Art had tried to put a BOLO out. He had to admit, though, it was ballsy of her to choose a motel so close to the Richmond PD.

Tim decided to use the quiet lot of a motorsports store, which allowed him to park discreetly behind the building and approach the motel from behind.

The motor inn Kathryn had chosen was a single story motel, situated between a gas station and a Cracker Barrel. When Tim reached the parking lot, he saw her motorcycle parked next to the dumpster behind the restaurant. He would have to figure out which room she was in on his own. There were only a few lighted windows, so he decided to start by walking past each one to see if he could get a better idea. He hoped to find her without having to involve the front office, which would surely lead to Art being alerted to his whereabouts.

Chief Deputy Mullen had called him no fewer than seven times before Tim had answered, claiming to have been distracted by the pursuit. He had told Art they were headed south on I-75 (true) and that his cellphone was about to die (not true) before turning the phone off and continuing off the exit ramp toward 25. He was relying on the fact that he was driving a previously impounded car from 2002 without any GPS to provide him some time to speak with Kathryn without the umbrella of the Marshals service hanging overhead. Tim wanted an explanation from Kathryn herself, and he intended to ask her as many questions as he could off the record.

The first window Tim approached had the curtains pulled open, so he could see the couple inside eating Chinese takeout and watching television. The second set of curtains were closed, but he could hear some raucous sex from behind the door, so he felt it safe to assume it wasn't Kathryn. As he was approaching the third lighted window, Tim stopped, leaning against a different door.

The lights were off, the curtains pulled closed, but he could hear music thrumming lowly from within, and it sounded familiar. Tim pressed his ear against the door and realized it was the same music he'd been forced to listen to earlier in the evening, and he was sure he was at the right room.

Tim unholstered his weapon and knocked on the door, being sure to hold his face just far enough to the side that the peephole would not be useful. He hitched his voice up a few octaves, dulled his telltale drawl. "Ma'am. You forgot your ID at the office." He listened as Kathryn stepped cautiously toward the door, fumbling with the lock. She pulled it open just an inch before he shouldered through like a bull charging toward his matador. Kathryn had obviously not been expecting this and Tim watched with satisfaction as she tumbled backward, landing on her ass as her firearm left her hand and dropped uselessly to the floor. Tim advanced on her, pointing his weapon menacingly toward her face. He watched as fear spread over her features before it was replaced by a cold acceptance.

He looked in her eyes and saw that she thought he was going to kill her. He deliberately pushed away the guilt that swelled up in his throat.

Tim kicked the door closed, keeping his gun aimed at her the whole time. "Up," he said, gesturing toward a short loveseat on the opposite side of the room. Kathryn scrambled to her feet and walked to the couch. "Sit," he said, and she did, stiffly. Tim kept his gun trained on Kathryn as he reached behind him to lock the door and flip on the light. He also bent down to pick up his new captive's firearm, placing it behind the television. As he walked toward the woman on the couch, he noticed a black duffel on the bed and a plastic bag from the gas station on the table nearest her. "What's in the bag?" he asked.

"Snacks," she said plainly, "and a phone." Tim peeked into the bag and saw a bottle of Johnnie Walker, a tube of Pringles and a box of doughnuts; apparently Kathryn truly was a creature of habit. The Tracfone she'd purchased appeared untouched in its packaging, meaning she likely hadn't called anyone. He also noticed, with some amount of unbidden mirth, that there was a new travel toothbrush also stashed inside.

"Does anyone know you're here?"

"Just you and whoever else you brought along." Tim did not feel inclined at the moment to tell her that he was alone.

"I'm going to holster my weapon," he said, "But if you so much as hiccup, I will shoot you where you sit." He watched Kathryn's jaw tighten and he knew she believed him.

With his weapon holstered, Tim grabbed the box of doughnuts from the plastic bag. As he took the first bite, he realized he hadn't eating anything since lunch and he was suddenly quite glad Kathryn had made such a frivolous pit stop.

They sat in silence for several minutes as Tim ate, trying to decide how he wanted to proceed. For her part, Kathryn sat serenely on the couch, watching him closely, but giving nothing else away. Tim looked at her, still in the clothes she'd worn to the concert, hair slick with stale sweat and purple bruises darkening against her pale skin. She looked, for all the ferocity in her stare, like she was playing at dress up, and Tim had to stifle a chuckle because he knew it was no act.

Tim set the nearly empty box down on the table and lifted the bottle of scotch to his mouth, taking a long swig to wash down the sugar. The liquor burned deliciously and he rolled his shoulders, enjoying the metallic aftertaste for once. In all the time he'd been standing there, Kathryn hadn't moved an inch. She was just watching him in silence; it was unnerving and totally uncharacteristic of the woman he'd worked with before.

The music was still playing and Tim scanned the room for the source. He found that the motel, for all its outdated decor, had a small iHome instead of a traditional alarm clock, and Kathryn must have plugged in her own music player. Tim stepped over to it cautiously, as it required him to come almost in line with Kathryn where she sat, and tugged the music player out of its port, blanketing them both in blissful silence. "I don't know how you get anything done listening to that racket all the time."

"How long have you been watching me?"

"Just shy of a week," he said. Kathryn gave no indication that she was surprised or otherwise impacted by this information. "You knew."

Kathryn shrugged. "I knew someone was watching the house. I just didn't expect it to be you." Tim processed this information, thinking about the Grizzlies shirt even as he tried not to.

"Who did you think was watching you?"

"I don't know."

"Stop fucking lying to me, Ms. Geller," he thought he saw her flinch when he used the name, "I'm tired of it."

Kathryn took a deep breath and he watched as her stick-straight posture collapsed, her back collapsing in resignation to her predicament. "I assumed it was the FBI," she said, and he finally believed her.

"Why would the FBI be surveilling you?"

"If you're here, I think you probably know that."

Tim leaned against the wall opposite the loveseat and crossed his arms. "I think you'd better start telling me what the fuck is going on," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Who are you and who do you work for?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Listen to me, Kath—Ms. Geller, you are deep, deep in the shit right now. If you don't want me to pick up the phone and tell SA Reed precisely where he can find your sorry ass, you need to tell me what is happening."

"And why should I trust you?" she asked.

"You did once," he said. "And I'm here now. Alone. That's gotta be worth something."

Kathryn appraised him from her seat. He watched as her mind waged some internal battle against itself, and he wondered which part of her personality would win out; the kind, thoughtful side or the cruel, ruthless side. Finally, "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Can I at least have a drink?" she asked.

Tim gestured easily to the table, "Be my guest."

Kathryn stood from the short couch and grabbed herself a cup, poured a tall shot, and took it. Then she filled the glass nearly to the brim and sat back down, tucking her legs up underneath her in a cross-legged position. "I don't really know what you mean by 'everything,'" she held up a hand as he began to protest, "but I'll try." Tim, satisfied with her answer, leaned his head back against the wall and waited.

#

"I need to make it clear that my parents loved me very much," she began, "but they had me young and they were both addicts, so my childhood was not exactly functional. I spent most of my time back and forth with them between squalid apartments or flophouses and homeless shelters. My parents often forgot to buy food or clothes, and I had to make due with what I had available to me. That usually meant relying on neighbors or friends' parents once I got old enough to go to school.

"When I was nine or ten, my mom got clean for a while and she and I moved into a women's shelter before she got a little studio apartment for the two of us. But eventually she took my dad back and she relapsed and we were all right back where we'd been before." Tim watched as Kathryn took a sip of her drink and shivered.

"When I was eleven, I met a man name Jay. He was in his early twenties, probably, but I don't really know how old he was for sure. Jay was nice to me; he let me hangout with him and his friends, play video games. And he bought me stuff; pizza and McDonald's and cute clothes. He even paid for my school supplies when I started sixth grade. I thought he was my friend.

"Jay introduced me to booze, drugs, all of that. He used to always compliment me; tell me I was 'so mature' for my age, that I was pretty, that he loved me." Tim could feel the vehemence in her voice, but there was an undertone of nostalgia and heartbreak. His muscles tensed, dreading the continuation of the story as much as she seemed to. He thought of Ibsen, duct taped to a chair in his basement.

"It didn't take long before he convinced me to have sex with him, and then soon after that he asked me to have sex with some of his 'friends'... as a favor," she took another drink, "He told me it was what a good girlfriend would do. And I was a child, so what the fuck did I know about being a girlfriend?" She snorted, but the laugh rang hollow and flat. He could see the pain creeping into her eyes even as she held her jaw firm against an intruding quiver.

"I aged out of Jay's clientele pretty quick, so he passed me on to someone else." Though he was trying to maintain a neutral facade, Tim's eyes must have given away his confusion because she looked at him and then pointed to one of the tattoos on her arms. "That's what these are," she explained, "brands from men who thought they owned me." Tim didn't move, letting the full weight of her words crash against him like an angry wave. He had seen those tattoos, had counted them, had even asked her about them and been frustrated when she wouldn't explain.

He felt sick. Kathryn looked like she did, too, so she took a long, slow sip of her scotch and a deep breath before she continued.

"After that, things get really fuzzy because I was high all the time. Opioids mostly. But when I was sixteen or so, I was in a motel someplace hot and sticky. They used to set us up in rooms for a week or two at a time, and 'customers' would come to see us there.

"I don't know how long I was there for, but at one point, this woman walked in. She was the most beautiful fucking thing I'd ever seen; glowing skin and long legs, and big brown doe eyes that stared straight through me. I remember thinking she looked like Naomi Campbell. Hell, I was so doped up I probably thought it was her." Tim couldn't take his eyes off Kathryn as she spoke. He watched the muscles in her legs twitch as she continued; her fingers tapping frantically against the cup in her lap.

"Anyway, she came in and I'm all sprawled out and sweaty on this bed, trying to look alluring," another drink, "but she puts her hand on my knee and she says," Kathryn took a breath, and the next words that left her mouth felt heavy and important, "'You don't have to do that. You don't have to ever do that again if you don't want to.'" For the first time since she started, Tim could see real tears forming in Kathryn's eyes as she spoke. He wanted to reach out and touch her, tell her that it was over, but he he knew he couldn't. She struggled to keep the tears at bay, her whole body tense. She lost the battle and he watched as two small tears halfway down her face before she swiped angry at them and continued.

"I thought it was a trick, so I shook my head no and she asked me to take a bath." Kathryn took another sharp sip of her drink. Checking to see how much remained in her cup, she judged it insufficient and stood, topping herself off, before returning to her cross legged position on the couch. "I remember thinking she was like one of those moms you see on TV. She was so... gentle. Careful and loving. She washed my hair and behind my ears. She even scrubbed in between my toes," Kathryn's voice dipped low and soft, "I remember because it tickled.

"When I stood up, the water in the tub looked liked it'd been drained from a swamp. She sat me up, wrapped me in a towel, and brushed my hair," she paused, looking up, but never at him, like she was afraid to meet this gaze. "It was long then," she gestured, "down to my waist, and she french braided it. No one had ever been so soft with me, ever. Not even my own mother. When she was finished, she pulled some clean sweats and a pair of flip-flops out of her bag, and she asked me if I wanted to leave with her." Tim held his breath. "I said yes."

Tim's mind was split between trying to listen to Kathryn and wanting to ask a thousand questions. He was afraid if he moved, even if he breathed too loudly, whatever spell had overtaken her would be broken and she would stop talking. Kathryn took another long sip of her drink and Tim noticed for the first time that she was actually rather tipsy; her eyelids sat low and heavy, and there was a rosy color in her cheeks that hadn't been there before.

Though there were no longer tears in her eyes, he could see her hands were shaking.

"I was being kept on the fifth floor. They used to put us up high because it made it harder for customers to leave without paying and for us to run away. She told me stay to behind her, and she killed four men just to get me to her car. I couldn't fathom why she was even helping me, this beautiful stranger." Kathryn switched her legs, fidgeting around, Tim thought, simply to distract herself from the memory.

"After that, she helped me get clean, get my GED, even take some accelerated college classes. And then she told me I could go live my life any way, any place I wanted," Kathryn took a measured breath, "or I could help her help people like me." Kathryn paused, looking down at the cup in her hands. "I know people who have led healthy, productive lives after meeting her, but for me, there was never any choice. I knew the second she offered it to me I would gnaw off my own leg for the chance to work with her.

"So I learned to fight, I learned to fire a gun... I already knew very well how to pretend, so that part came easy. I started working for her when I was 20, and I've been doing it ever since."

Tim's mind was racing. Kathryn had been trafficked, drugged, abused. She wanted to be on the ground floor because she had been imprisoned on the fifth. She carried cleaning supplies with her because she'd grown up in squalor. Suddenly, so many parts of her were brought into uncomfortably sharp focus. Part of him wished he could forget them and let her drift back to a beautiful blur.

But an out of focus picture was incomplete, and the woman before him deserved to be seen in full splendor.

And he had slept with her. Tim felt like there was a rock in his stomach as his brain rushed to review each interaction they'd had. Had he taken advantage of her? Had she felt pressured to have sex with him at any time? He was snapped from his internal terror by Kathryn's soft voice from across the room.

"If I hadn't wanted to sleep with you, Deputy, trust me, I wouldn't have." Tim looked up from his thoughts, confused. Had he said that out loud? "It's not an unreasonable question; I can see it on your face," she explained. "You're a good man, Tim. I know that. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Who is she?" he asked, as much because he wanted the information as to change the subject.

"I can't tell you that."

"You have to, Ka—Sa—Ms. Geller," he decided, frustrated by his momentary lapse and resulting idiotic sputter.

To his surprise, Kathryn smiled. "I watched a lot of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ when I left the life, while I was rehabbing and taking classes. It was a good distraction. When she asked me what I wanted my new name to be, I chose Sarah Gellar because I wanted to feel strong and powerful. She changed the spelling of the last name because she thought it was too obvious. Kathryn was my mother's name and my middle name; it's what I go by now."

"If you want me to help you, Kathryn, I need you to tell me who she is."

Kathryn hesitated, rolling the nearly empty cup back and forth in her palms. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper and Tim had to incline his head toward her to make out the words. "Her name is Delia," she said, "But I can't tell you anything else." Her voice grew louder as she looked back up at Tim. "I've already told you too much, and I am loyal to her, absolutely."

Tim was still leaned against the wall, but his legs suddenly felt leaden and exhausted. He wasn't sure whether it was from standing on concrete all night at that concert, or from the sheer emotional toll Kathryn's store had taken. He pushed himself away from the wall and moved to sit next to Kathryn, who remained tucked on one end of the loveseat. He looked down at her arms. The tattoos seemed somehow darker and more menacing than he remembered. When he reached out and touched one of them, Kathryn flinched violently away from him.

"Sorry," she said, "I... I don't talk about that part of my life much. When I do..." she trailed off and Tim understood.

"I get the same way when people ask about my deployment. Tight chest, real jumpy." She nodded. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that."

"It's okay," she assured him, and she finished the last dregs of her drink, tossing the cup carelessly and uncharacteristically to the floor. When she spoke, she didn't look at him. "I know you have to bring me in. I understand and respect that, but I need you to know that I did not get Romero killed. I would never do that."

"I know," he said, and she finally looked over at him, still sitting close, but careful to leave her her own space. "Why do you think I'm here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh... finally, we know more about who Kathryn is & why! I've been waiting to tell her story, and I'm glad Tim finally knows what her deal is (at least, mostly). I know it's a lot of dialogue, so thanks for hanging with it. Cheers!


	6. Let 'Em Eat Cake

Tim stared up at the dark ceiling, wondering what the hell he was going to do. He worried that he would be unable to protect Kathryn indefinitely from the arm of the law, and he was even more concerned about Dawson, a hitman still unaccounted for. Kathryn had been reticent to provide him with any further details about Delia or her work. She had only said that Romero had been aware of her position and of the case the two of them had completed together prior to his murder.

She, too, was concerned about the apparent cover-up of what had taken place at Daniel Boone, and while she remained committed to the cause, and willing as far as he could tell to be jailed for it if necessary, she confided that she had spent the time since he'd last seen her trying to figure out what had happened. It was her belief that a compromised FBI agent was behind Romero's death, the disappearance of the victims, and the accusations against her.

A government conspiracy. Wonderful.

After she'd told Tim her story, Kathryn had taken a long shower, emerging red and raw from scalding hot water and too much scrubbing. He'd showered, too, though he was forced to re-don his dirty clothes afterward. Kathryn had made a half-hearted attempt to tease him about her spare shirts not fitting him as well as his had suited her, but the toll of discussing her past was evident, and the quip had no bite. When she'd offered him the bed because she was shorter and would fit better on the small couch, he'd refused, easily accepting that despite their past, they would not be sharing the bed. He respected her space, and had laid down on the loveseat with his legs propped up on one end and his head on the other. He kept trying to convince himself that it was like sleeping in a hammock, but it wasn't. Eventually, though, he had drifted off to sleep, the exhaustion and adrenaline drain of the day overpowering his discomfort.

Tim was startled awake by the sound of soft crying. When he sat up, the faint light that filtered through from the window cast strange shadows over Kathryn's face as she laid in bed. He could see, though, that she was still asleep; brow furrowed and drenched in sweat. Her face was damp with tears. "No," she said, small and sad, and he realized she was dreaming. Tim stood, unsure of the right course of action. But his decision was made for him when Kathryn thrashed violently, "No!" and he knew this was not a dream she should have to endure.

Tim sat precariously on the edge of the bed, reaching gently out and touching Kathryn's shoulder. "Hey," he whispered, "Kathryn..."

But she shifted sharply against his touch. "Let me go..." and she was still crying, broken and heart-wrenching sobs muffled against the pillow as she turned her head to the side.

Tim remembered Kathryn's hands on his shoulders in a motel room not unlike this one, forcing him awake from a nightmare. He wondered if this was what she'd seen in him; terror and fear and sadness. He wondered if he'd been crying, too.

"Get off of me!" Tim's stomach clenched as Kathryn yelped and swung her arms up wildly. Tim caught them in his hands, holding them down at her sides as gently as he could while she kicked at some unseen assailant from beneath the duvet. His chest tightened as he watched her relive some terrifying memory, unable to rouse her.

"Kathryn, wake up!" But she didn't, she just kept thrashing against him, whimpering so softly he thought he might cry, too. He leaned down and pressed his mouth against her ear. "Kathryn, wake up, you're having a nightmare."

Her face almost collided with his as she shot up into a seated position. Panting, trembling, and still sweating, she looked wildly around. He leaned back, trying to give her space as he released her arms. It took her a moment to focus on her surroundings, but when her eyes fell to his, she scrambled to him and crumbled against his chest, grasping desperately at his shirt and sobbing in earnest.

He didn't know what to do. He could feel her tears soaking through his shirt, could feel her whole body convulsing as she wailed hopelessly against him. He wrapped his arms around her, hoping it was the right thing to do. It was the first time Tim had ever thought of Kathryn as being small. She was petite, certainly; a good six inches shorter than him and well-muscled, but lithe. Her demeanor and aura always made her seem larger, somehow. As she curled into his chest, clutching at him like a child, he was overwhelmed by just how tiny she felt in his arms.

When he tried to think of something to say, his mouth felt dry. He didn't want to tell her it was okay, because it wasn't. He didn't want to tell her she was safe, because he wasn't sure that was true, either. Eventually, he settled on whispering, "I'm here. I'm right here," as he ran a hand through her hair in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. Tim wasn't used to providing solace; no one had ever looked to him for it except, he remembered, Samuel Kirk. But that had only been because he was dying and Tim was the sole other person for miles.

This was different.

Eventually, Kathryn's crying subsided and she quieted against him, releasing his shirt and sitting back to wipe at her face with her hands. He loosened his grip and eventually let go, though he didn't want to. He wanted to keep holding her close, to protect her from whatever horrors the night had brought forth. He also didn't want to overstep his boundaries, and he wasn't sure where exactly those demarcation lines were anymore.

Kathryn didn't say anything as she collapsed back against the pillows. Tim stood to return to the couch, but she reached out and snatched his wrist. When he looked down at her, she was staring up into his face with a pleading and somber expression. "Stay," she said, and the sound was so small and unsure that Tim thought his heart might break.

She moved over to give him enough space to slide under the blankets with her, and then she was on him in an instant, wrapping both her legs around one of his and folding an arm over his chest, tucking herself as tightly against him as she could. He wrapped his arms awkwardly around her.

"Is this okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he assured her, despite the fact that it was even more uncomfortable than his previous position on the loveseat. Still, he couldn't bear the thought of taking away what little comfort he could offer her.

Tim ran his fingers delicately over her right arm as it draped over his middle. Looking down, he could see she was wide awake, staring past his shoulder at some far away, lost in a memory. He looked down at the pale appendage on his chest, noting the dark ink etched into her skin. The poorly executed tattoos looked much more sinister now that he understood their origin. The question fell out of his mouth before he could stop it, "Why don't you have them removed?"

At first, he didn't think she'd answer. He cursed his indelicate outburst as she let out a long, shuddering breath, the kind that stutters out of your lungs after you've cried so hard your soul feels empty. Then, she whispered against his chest, "I've thought about it. Still do sometimes." She looked up at him and he watched her face in the dark, blotchy and red—still, he thought, quite lovely. "But they're part of who I am, a reminder of why I do what I do. And besides, when I work with victims, they trust me because they can see I'm one of them." His hand was still caressing her arm when she shifted, reaching up under his shirt to rest her hand over his heart. He wondered if she could feel the way it fluttered when she did. He hoped not.

They spent the rest of their time in silence, her head tucked close to his neck, nose brushing against his pulse. Eventually, his breathing slowed and he fell asleep even as his right arm went numb from the awkward pressure of her body.

#

Kathryn was gone the next morning when he woke, but she had left him something. On the couch where he hadn't slept, there was a silver key and a short note. _D will be in touch._ A phone number with _if you need to reach me._ No details on what the key was for, exactly, though he had his suspicions. Tim decided to follow his instincts and flushed the note before he left the room and headed back to his car.

It wasn't until he was on the road headed toward Lexington and whatever reaming Art had in store for him that he decided to let his mind cast back over the previous evening. His stomach clenched when he thought of Kathryn's story and her subsequent night terrors. He had noticed the black motorcycle was missing when he left, and he allowed himself only a moment of frustration at not having procured the license plate number the night before. Mostly, he was glad she had left before him because he wasn't sure he would have been able to let her go otherwise. He understood that she needed to distance herself from him in order to stay out of custody. But he wished she could be next to him, where he knew she was safe.

He knew he was bound to be perpetually on edge until they found Dawson, at least. Once the errant hitman was out of the picture, they could focus on the larger issue of who else might be involved in the plot against Kathryn and, in all likelihood, the person she worked for. Tim let his mind go blank for the rest of the drive, turning up the radio and rolling down the windows to press every unwanted thought from his mind. He knew what he wanted to do, and he also knew that he would likely need to wait to see exactly how chaotic the Marshals' office was before he made any moves.

On an impulse, Tim made the decision to stop at Kathryn's house before completing his journey into downtown Lexington. He parked in front of the little house, aware that he was broadcasting his location, but figuring that if anyone was there already or if someone arrived soon, it wouldn't matter whether they knew immediately or had to go inside the house first.

Tim approached the front door cautiously. He couldn't see anyone inside, but that didn't mean someone wasn't. He decided a direct approach was best, and he walked straight up the stairs to the front door. He stopped at the screen, looking down at it the way Kathryn had the night before when she'd decided to enter through the garage. Barely visible, there was a broken thread dangling limply from the door handle. It was light blue, the color of the flowers closest to the door. An old trick, but a useful one. Kathryn had clearly known someone would come looking for her eventually. He wondered at the childish tactic, surely she had a more high-tech solution available to her?

Tim opened the front door, still broken from where he'd busted it in. The house was quiet and he peeked back into the kitchen and the dining room, seeing nothing of note. There were crime scene markers where casings had been found, caution tape over the back door where it had been broken in. Tim stilled in the short hallway between the living room and the dining room, staring at the door to the basement. His hand fingered the key in his pocket, and he headed downstairs.

The basement was dank and cool; not a finished space as was now expected of newer homes, but a utilitarian expanse with a sink, washer, dryer, and storage along one wall. A single naked light bulb dangled from the ceiling overhead. Tim reached up and pulled the cord, bathing the room in dim light. He took a moment to survey the space and he realized it was too small; there was space missing toward the back of the house, as if the basement had never been completed. He looked over the shelving along the back wall with a trained and critical eye, and he realized the built-in storage was a ruse; there must be a hidden space behind it.

Tim walked over to it, running his hands along the rough wood shelves. They were stacked with peanut butter jars filled with screws, half-empty paint cans, and assorted tools. A silver box in the middle of the unit caught his attention. When he attempted to lift it, it would not move. Certain of his discovery, Tim pulled the silver key from his pocket. He placed it in the lock and was about to turn it—

The sound of a toilet flushing sent him flying backward like the shelf had electrocuted him. He stashed the key in his pocket and drew his firearm, heading cautiously across the basement and back up the stairs, turning the light off as he went.

#

When Tim reached the top of the stairs, he carefully swept through the door and closed it silently behind him. His ears picked up the sound of someone moving in the kitchen, so he turned through the dining room, approaching the same way he had the night before when it had been Kathryn and an unknown assailant. He hoped this time that it was truly Vince Dawson, so he could put a bullet in him. With the hitman dead, Tim would feel much better about Kathryn continuing to delve into the Daniel Boone incident on her own.

Tim braced himself along the wall, took two breaths, and burst into the kitchen.

“Well hello, Tim!”

Tim pulled his firearm back and snapped his finger off the trigger.

“Shit, Raylan. What the hell!”

The taller man was standing in the kitchen, leaned casually against the counter, eating a piece of the elaborate cake Kathryn had baked the previous day. Raylan pointed at the treat with his fork, speaking with a mouthful of frosting. “You should try this, it’s really, really good.”

Tim holstered his weapon, trying not to let his irritation get the better of him. “I thought you were on desk duty.”

Raylan shrugged, “Art’s best deputy was unavailable,” he looked pointedly across the room at Tim, “and you went AWOL. So he sent me to watch the house.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Who’s his best deputy?” he asked.

“Rachel.”

“Naturally.”

Tim walked to the counter and took a seat at one of the stools. He’d expected to run into a Marshal or some local guy watching the house. He had hoped maybe Art would've left Nelson, he could’ve easily talked his way out of that. Talking his way out of anything with Raylan was a trick and a half, talking himself out of sneaking around a crime scene after going missing for eight hours might be impossible.

Tim watched as Rayalan scraped the remnants of his cake from the plate.

“You really think it’s wise to eat food from the fridge of a dangerous fugitive?”

“Now Tim, are you trying to tell me your lady laced her cake with arsenic?" He continued, mock seriously, "You dating Lady Tofana?"

Tim stood, ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Raylan, knock it off, you’re not funny. And anyway, I gave you that book.”

Raylan shrugged. “I think I'm pretty funny. I also think you wouldn’t be so sore if I wasn't right about you and Ms. Geller.”

Raylan walked over to the fridge and pulled it open. Tim stared at the cake he dragged out. It was missing a few pieces, but the towering dessert was truly spectacular. Two tiers of three layers each, if the missing slices were any indication. It was decorated with buttercream roses in various shades that created a pastel-colored bouquet on the top tier.

Even Tim the Ranger Sniper didn’t think he would have had the patience for it.

“So what are you doing here, Timmy?” Raylan cut himself another slice of cake, gesturing toward Tim, who waved him off even though he desperately wanted to try it.

“I came looking for some clues about where Ms. Geller might have gone." Raylan chuckled. Tim ignored him. “I followed her as far as Richmond, but I lost her after she got off the highway.”

“Richmond’s only 40 minutes from here. Why’d it take you so long to get back?”

“Well, I searched for her a while. I stopped and got a room when I got too tired to drive." The excuse sounded lame, even to him. Raylan was fresh and sharp while Tim was dragging ass, which left him at a distinct disadvantage.

Tim glanced over his shoulder toward the front of the house, and his eyes stopped at the open door leading to Kathryn’s bedroom. Aside from the bathroom, it was the only other part of the house he hadn’t yet seen. His eyes lingered on the door frame, wondering how the room was decorated and what color her sheets were.

Tim was snapped away from his thoughts as Raylan slid over a plate with a slice of cake on it. “If you wanna go raid her panty drawer, I won’t say nothin’.” Tim watched the cowboy pop another forkful of cake into his mouth and hum an appreciative and exaggerated, “mmmm.”

Tim rubbed his hands roughly over his face. He wished again that it’d been Dawson waiting for him when he came upstairs. Or hell, Art, even. His dead dad. Anyone but Raylan.


	7. A Phone Call

When Tim arrived at the office, he walked into a hurricane of activity. Rachel’s eyes rose to meet his from the conference room, and he could see immediately that he was in for a shitstorm. He was still deciding whether it would be easier to just turn around and leave the country rather than face Art, when his boss noticed Rachel’s gaze and fixed his eyes on him, too.

Tim didn’t know if he’d ever been so scared in his life. Art was an unpredictable man, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether the Chief Deputy was past putting a bullet in a subordinate who had disappeared without a trace during an FBI-backed manhunt.

Art pulled open the glass door and Tim braced as if for impact. “You get your ass in my office. _Now_.” Despite the fact that there were at least a dozen officers from various federal agencies buzzing through the bullpen, there was no question in anyone’s mind who the summons was meant for, and Tim trudged toward Art’s office feeling all the confidence of a sixth grader on his way to see the principal.

Art held the door open for Tim, which felt somehow more threatening than if he had been pointing his firearm at him. He stood awkwardly as Art carefully closed the door and then made his way around the office, lowering each set of blinds. The last thing Tim saw before he was cut off from the outside world entirely was Vasquez’s smug smirk.

“What the fuck, Tim.” Tim opened his mouth, but Art gave him no time to answer. “No, I mean, what. The. Fuck.”

“Sorry, Art.”

“Sorry? You’re fuckin’ sorry? Well, that’s just dandy. Thank you, Tim. I’m so glad that YOU’RE SORRY!”

Tim winced. The persistent buzz of others working in the adjacent rooms quieted to a dull and insidious silence. For all that Art had made a show of closing the blinds so no one could see in, he obviously had zero intention of keeping their conversation private in any way.

“I thought I could catch her, but I lost her once we got off the highway.”

Art collapsed into his chair, clasping his hands across his middle. “And then what? Because you should’ve turned tail then and headed straight back here.” Tim started to answer before Art curtly interjected, “In fact, you shouldn’t have taken off after her alone in the first place!”

Tim ran his hands through his hair, trying to sell his frustration. He decided to pointedly ignore the second jab and instead address the question. “I just kept driving around, hoping I’d spot her. I was angry and frustrated that I lost the vehicle, and I let it cloud my judgement. At some point, I realized it really wasn’t safe for me to be driving anymore, so I gave up and slept at a motel and now I’m back.” Tim collapsed into a chair across from Art, sinking down into the worst posture he could manage without hurting his back. “I stopped at the house first, then I came here.”

Art watched Tim for what felt like a long time. Tim hoped that the legitimate circles under his eyes would help to underscore his exhaustion, maybe gain some sympathy from his extremely frustrated superior. He knew that Art had a soft spot for him, and he was looking to play on that affection for all it was worth in this moment.

“Goddamn it, Tim.” Art shook his head, leaning forward onto the desk. “Next time keep your phone charged. Got it?”

Tim sat up, relieved. “Yes, sir.”

#

Of course, Art’s irritation hadn’t really tapered out with a request to better manage his battery usage. Instead, his righteous indignation had extended to Tim’s work, and Tim was now stuck on desk duty, filing paperwork for his ill begotten chase, the weapons that had been discharged in Kathryn’s home, and the time he had spent tailing her at that horrible concert.

Tim was pleased by none of it, but he also knew he had no say. So he dutifully buried his head in lengthy forms and manila folders until 7PM, at which point he decided it would be prudent for him to return home. Tomorrow was another day, and he needed to sleep if he was going to be at all functional.

Tim tossed his copy of Kathryn’s file onto the counter as he walked into his kitchen and yanked open the fridge. He pulled out a half-filled tupperware container and put it into the microwave. While he waited for his leftovers to warm up, he poured himself a bourbon and flipped on the television with the remote, leaving it on whichever channel it was already tuned to, not caring as long as it provided some white noise. As he took a sip of his drink, he stared at the unopened file and let his mind wander through the facts of the case thus far.

He wondered where Kathryn was now; what she was doing. Whether she was safe. His stomach tightened when he thought of the still unaccounted for hitman, and his part in all of this. If he believed Kathryn—and he found that despite everything, he did—then someone else was responsible for the death of her handler. Dawson, though an effective murderer, certainly was not cut out for management, which meant his services had been acquired by someone else.

The most important question for Tim to answer was who was writing the checks, and was he a dirty agent or some thug she’d been associated with during her time as an informant. The answer to that question could very well determine every important turn the case would take. Of course, he could tell Art they shouldn’t be hunting Kathryn. But watching all of their resources poured into finding her was maddening when he realized there was a much larger picture they should all be taking into account.

When the microwave beeped, Tim pulled out the leftover chicken and rice and took it to the couch, where he sprawled out and ate. He let the television continue on in the background, though he paid it no attention, even after he’d finished his dinner and poured another drink. In fact, he found himself in a complete daze as his mind continued combing through the information he had, looking for inconsistencies or openings he might have previously missed. He was cursing Raylan Givens and wondering how he could once again gain access to Kathryn’s house when his phone rang.

Tim sprang up like someone had jabbed him with a cattle prod. He’d let his mind drift too far, and it took him a moment to recognize what was happening. He lifted the device to his ear without looking at who was calling.

“Hello?”

“’Evening, Deputy.” Tim’s shoulders relaxed a fraction; he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding them so tightly.

“Miss Kathryn, what a surprise.” Tim leaned back against the couch, letting his feet come up to rest on the coffee table in front of him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He could hear Kathryn pull back a laugh, reigning herself in. “Just wanted to say goodnight; I feel like I cheated you a little bit last time we saw each other.”

Tim listened carefully; he could hear something soft and quiet playing in the background and he wondered despite his best efforts what she was listening too, even though he knew he’d probably hate it. “It is presumptuous of you to assume my bedtime. My wet nurse doesn’t put me down for another hour, yet.”

“Hm. Someone should probably have a talk with the babysitter, then.” He didn’t miss the fact she hadn’t said ‘parents.’ Of course, having been through his records before she recruited him initially, she would know they were both dead. It was a small gesture—one of many—that he noticed and refused to take for granted.

“Where are you now?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t answer.

“Somewhere between the Pacific and Atlantic, just north of the Mexican border and a tad south of the Canadian,” she said, soberly. He heard the clink of ice in a glass over the phone and he wondered how many she’d had to steel her nerves before she’d called him. Even Kathryn—enigmatic and assured though she was—must have had some reservations after their last interaction. If she was half as guarded as he thought she was, he could confidently count on a single had the number of times she’d cried in front of another person. Tim wondered if any of them had also seen her naked.

“Nothing new here, I’m afraid,” he said, deciding it was time to get down to business. “Dawson is still a dead-end for now. No one knows where he is. They’ve got six Marshals and a coupla Feebs working to find you.”

“Unless one of them is you, I doubt that would be nearly enough.” She paused, waiting to see if he would continue their ill-advised flirtation. When she realized he wasn’t going rise to the bait, she continued more somberly. “I don’t know anything about this Dawson shithead either. He’s new to me and I’m trying to find anything I can on him, but it’s hard now that I’ve been locked out of the FBI databases. Romero used to let me use his credentials.”

That explained how she had been so capable of pretending to be an agent when he’d worked with her. Romero was another line of inquiry. He still wasn’t sure what exactly his relationship with Kathryn had been or why he had been willing to look the other way why she did her work. “If I hear anything useful, I’ll let you know. Just assume he’s in every room you walk into; from what I’ve read, he’s that kind of guy.”

“Noted,” she said, and he heard the ice clink again.

“When should I expect your Delia?”

He imagined Kathryn losing a bit of her drink as she snorted. “Ha-ha, Deputy. She’ll find you at some point in the near-ish future at a place where you will be available to speak with her. That’s all I can tell you, truly.” There was a pause as she considered something he couldn’t quite decipher over the phone. He wished he could see her, look her in the eye and read what she was thinking. He could hear her voice change as she whispered thoughtfully, “For what it’s worth, she seems interested to meet you. Can’t say that for most folks.”

“I’ll try to keep my calendar open, then,” he offered, hoping to bring the more light-hearted side of her back. Tim liked witty, sarcastic Kathryn. He wasn’t sure, yet, what he thought about sad, vulnerable Sarah Gellar or whatever her name was. But he was leaning toward, ‘no, thanks.’

“Since there’s nothing else to report, I guess I’ll leave you and your nanny to your bedtime routine.”

“Thanks, it’s my favorite part of the day.”

“Goodnight, Deputy.”

“’Night, Kathryn.”

And then the music and the ice and her voice faded away and he was left alone in the dark of his living room with nothing left to do but think about the case, Kathryn, and how the hell he was going to get himself out from between the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiiii. I'm sorry! I know it's short & I've been MIA, but I've been renovating my house & it has taken all of my time, attention, and energy. I've still been thinking plenty about this story and fleshing it out, so hopefully updates will be more consistent moving forward!


	8. Gutter-Oh-Seven

When Tim walked into work the next morning, he was extremely pleased to find that Art believed he'd appropriately served his penance. He was welcomed back at the big kids' table and planted himself and his coffee in a chair in the conference room, which had apparently become the de facto home base for Special Agent Matthew Reed and his small team of FBI agents during Tim's brief absence. Tim let his eye wander along walls; a variety of photographs and sticky notes were spread all over them, detailing exactly how much everyone else in the room didn’t know about their current investigation.

The most recent photo of Kathryn was a security still of her getting into a cab the night he’d followed her from the punk show in Lexington. He guiltily admitted to himself he was glad they didn’t yet know she’d stopped after she got off the highway later that evening. He didn’t need anyone questioning his story of how he’d lost track of her. With Raylan’s insinuations nudging deeper into his brain every second this case remained open, he had zero interest in anyone else discovering he might have a larger stake in the outcome.

He was surprised to see that the Daniel Boone incident was confined to a very small corner of the room. He wondered, vaguely, why it had been relegated to the sidelines, when he knew it was the genesis of everything else.

By contrast, there seemed to be a lot of energy being wasted on the guy they’d picked up at Kathryn’s house; some whiny little tweaker by the name of Phillip Kempler who kept saying he didn’t know anything, which Tim believed. Despite the obvious diversion, the crack team of investigators before him was currently split as to whether they thought Vincent Dawson had hired Kempler to kill Sarah Geller, or if she’d brought him in herself and things had somehow gone sideways. Tim kept his opinions to himself because he knew the longer they spent trying to figure out Kempler’s deal, the more time he had to understand what was really happening without interference.

Tim was more interested in watching Reed, anyway. The man’s energy was chaotic and confusing. The first time he’d met him, Tim had assumed he was just some brown nosing hardass, but now he looked more like John Cusack in _Con Air_. He’d loosened his tie and tossed off his blazer, and he was pacing around the room, sweating far more than the air conditioning should have allowed as he listed every known associate of Kempler and Dawson, of which there were many.

Reed seemed like a man on the edge, and that intrigued Tim. If there was a dirty FBI agent somewhere in the mix, why not the guy who had brought the Marshals in to help? Why not the guy who clearly had a fugitive boner for Kathryn?

Tim flipped through the handout Reed had passed around with known associates of both men and Sarah Geller, but none of the names popped, and so he returned his attention to the man gesticulating wildly across the conference table. The more he listened to Reed extoll the virtues of “every beat cop in the tri-county” having a picture of Kathryn’s face plastered in their squad car, the more he liked him for the Daniel Boone coverup and Romero’s murder vis-à-vis Dawson. Reed reminded Tim of an overeager recruit who thought boot camp was the real thing; all bluster and bravado, but he’d piss himself when the fighting started in earnest.

Maybe it was just because the guy rubbed him the wrong way, but if it turned out Reed was his guy, Tim would have no problem believing it. He’d maybe even enjoying cuffing him, if he was being honest. He knew from his cursory search of Reed’s FBI records that he had spent most of his career collaring drug runners and low-level cartel members who were apparently Dawson’s usual clientele. That would give him the perfect in, as far as Tim was concerned. And anyway, it was a better lead than he’d had, yet.

Tim leaned back in his chair, fingers gently cradling his chin to hide the grin that sprouted as Reed accidentally sprayed Nelson with spit during a particularly vociferous flourish.

#

As Tim had expected, his day at the office had provided zero useful information. After the long and arduous task force meeting, he dug back through every shred of information he had about Sarah Geller and Vincent Dawson. He looked back over the crime scene photos from Daniel Boone and Romero’s murder. He read every detail of Special Agent Reed’s career.

And now, back in his apartment and still reading, his brain hurt.

Tim raked his fingers through his hair and tossed the pages he had been reading—details about Reed’s time at Quantico (excellent test scores and horrible marksmanship)—across the room, letting them land unceremoniously out of order on his living room carpet. He knew he would have to pick them up eventually, but for now he was petulantly content to let them crease on the floor.

It was then that Tim’s phone rang, and he was belatedly embarrassed by how quickly he leapt to answer it. He hadn’t even realized he’d been expecting Kathryn to call him again until he heard it.

“Well, hello,” he said, letting the smirk on his face ebb into his inflection.

“Hello to you too, Gutterson. What are you wearing?”

Tim almost choked on the beer he was sipping. “Randy! Hey, uh…”

“I take it you weren’t expecting me?”

“Sorry, man, it’s been a long day.” Tim set his beer back down on the table, deciding he wasn’t interested in being drunk in addition to stupid.

“I was just calling to let you know we set the date for this year’s trip. September 24-28. I assume you’re in?”

“Always.”

“Great. Well, I’ve gotta call everyone else, but I hope whoever you’re waitin’ for calls soon. Sounds like she must cost at least a couple bucks a minute.” Randy let out a hearty laugh that bellowed into Tim’s ear so loudly he had to pull the phone away from it.

“As if I’d ever pay,” Tim said, letting the smirk slice back across his features again.

#

On Wednesday, Tim managed to weasel his way into watching Kathryn’s house. The Marshals office had been put in charge of doing so, and Raylan had been begrudgingly filling that role for several days since Tim had run into him. But today, Raylan had an follow-up appointment with his doc and some time he wanted to spend at the range, which left the spot open. Art had originally tapped Nelson for it, but Tim had pulled the older man aside under the guise of discussing a chapter from _The Two Towers_ and convinced him to switch with him.

To be fair, Nelson was really getting a pretty good deal. Tim had been assigned with Rachel to transfer Kempler to the FMC from the holding cell he was in currently. It was a fifteen-minute drive each way, with plenty of latitude to make a detour for lunch at Nelson’s favorite diner along the way.

Tim couldn’t say that Rachel would be pleased, but he had other things to worry about, and he was sure she’d forgive him—at least mostly—as long as he brought her a nice caramel latte the next morning.

Tim parked a few blocks over from Kathryn’s house and walked over, letting himself in the semi-repaired front door with the Marshals’ key. He swept through the house first, not interested in being surprised as he had been by Raylan during his last visit. He was pleased to find the house empty; the broken back door now covered in ¾ inch plywood. He snuck a peak into the fridge, only to discover that the rest of the cake was missing. He assumed Raylan’s sweet tooth was to blame.

Then, Tim made his way back into the basement, where he was happy to discover nothing out of the ordinary. Part of him had been afraid that Raylan would have gone nosing around after their encounter and figure out what Tim had been looking for. It appeared that was not the case—at least, not in any obvious way. Who knew how Raylan’s mind worked, though. The man could be either stunningly oblivious or astutely observant, depending on the day, and Tim resolved to be far more careful around him in future.

Tim walked straight over to the utility shelves and looked at the silver box he’d discovered during his initial investigation of the space. Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, Tim took out the key Kathryn had bequeathed him and pressed it gently into the lock, turning it firmly to the right. After he heard the lock click, Tim tugged on the shelf and a door swung open. It was a simple enough design; the shelving continued on either side of the door and because the shelves weren’t all connected, no one would suspect that the section in the middle was attached to a door instead of a wall.

Tim steeled himself and stepped inside.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it was certainly something flashier than what he found. All of this secrecy, and he’d been rewarded with was essentially a dingy home office. Maybe he’d been hoping for something more suited to a James Bond movie; white and luminous, with large digital screens everywhere showing surveillance videos from across the globe. Instead, he found a narrow space stocked with a cork board, a computer desk with a bulky PC, clunky printer, and a tattered-looking swivel chair, with a mismatched set of filing cabinets to one side.

Tim leaned over the desk and turned on the lamp there as he sat down. Aside from the outdated computer, there was a notebook and a set of speakers attached to an auxiliary cable. He assumed Kathryn had taken whatever music device she normally used with her, because he didn’t see one.

There was also a landline telephone. That might explain the fact that they’d only seen her take one phone call upstairs during all that surveillance. Kathryn could have easily made any necessary phone calls from here under the guise of doing laundry. Tim considered calling his cell from it so he had the number, but he figured that would be relatively useless until and unless Kathryn was able to come home.

Instead, he lifted the receiver and dialed the number Kathryn had given him for her burner. It rang three times before he heard her answer.

“Deputy. Welcome to my home.”

“I’ve already seen the house, ma’am, and I have to say, this is not my favorite room.”

“Oh? Well, it’s where I spend most of my time. What took you so long, anyway? I expected a call two days ago.”

Tim leaned back in the chair and kicked his feet up onto the desk. “Things are a little… _hectic_ at work; it hasn’t been as easy to get away as I’d like. For the record, if I go down for letting you escape, I’m gonna squeal as loud as I can to get my sentence reduced.”

There was a gentle laugh from the other end of the line. “Fair enough, Gutterson. Can’t say I’d blame you.”

Tim flipped open the notebook, skimming the pages carelessly. It appeared at first glance to be a relatively detailed schedule of Kathryn’s movements and appointments, dating back to at least the beginning of the year.

“So what exactly am I looking for, here?” he asked.

“There’s not much,” she said, “But I thought you might like to see what I’ve got on the shit that went down in Daniel Boone. Maybe you can finally put it all together.”

Tim rolled over to the filing cabinets and pulled open one of the drawers, mindful of the cord attached to the phone. “I stopped there after your file landed on my desk, actually,” he said, flipping through the files and finding nothing that looked prescient.

“Anything of note?” she asked, and he tugged open the second drawer, but it was empty.

“Apparently _some woman_ called in the State Police after we left. They had the park rangers shut down the road and a couple of Feds helped them clear everything out without a trace or any media. Very hush-hush, very strange.” Tim pulled open the top drawer of the second cabinet. A file labeled “BOONE” in neat block letters was immediately at the front, and he tugged it out of the drawer. “Got it,” he said. He was about to slam the drawer shut again when his eyes caught on the next folder. “PERSONAL,” it said in the same uniform lettering. He hesitated a just a moment, then he pulled that folder out as well before finally closing the drawer.

“Deputy? Did I lose you?”

“No, I’m still here, keep your pants on.”

“I’m sure you don’t mean that,” she teased, and he tossed both folders onto the desk before flipping the one marked BOONE open.

He had to admit, Kathryn was thorough. He was looking at printouts with every man they’d killed—he recognized a few of them from his scope—along with details about their criminal history and associates. She also had a copy of the map they’d used to decide where to search the park, and the trucking manifests that he assumed Romero had supplied her.

He continued sifting through the pages and stopped at one with a list of names.

“What’s Reed doing on this list?” he asked.

“I was trying to think of anyone I knew of who might have the clout to pull off a cover-up. I doubt he would, but he’s always been kind of a stick in the mud, and so I included him just to cover my bases. Essentially, I know that whoever is responsible for that truck going missing, and probably for Romero’s murder, has to be relatively high up and well-connected. The problem is I honestly don’t know whether we should be looking at the FBI specifically because there are plenty of other links in the chain of custody that could have been corrupted.”

Tim nodded as he perused the list. It looked like most of the people on it were FBI, but she also had a few names from the Kentucky House of Representatives, Homeland Security, and the State Police.

“I’ll look into all of these guys and see what I can find.”

“Thanks,” Kathryn said, “I never realized how much I depended on Romero’s access. I’m flying blind and I don’t like it. But the work I did on that case was sound, there’s no reason it should have been buried like this. Romero made sure I kept all of the investigative work above board, so we wouldn’t have any issues. Admittedly, I fucked up by bringing you along, but you already know that.”

“Again, you’re welcome.” Tim closed the file and tossed it aside. His fingers skimmed the edges of the folder he’d pulled marked “PERSONAL,” debating with himself whether he should look inside. On one hand, it was certainly an invasion. On the other, he was blatantly curious, and he could spin it as though learning more about her might help him understand the case.

“Hello?”

“Sorry, I’m just reading your notes.”

“I want to find that truck, Tim. Those kids… I told them they were safe. I fucking _lied_ to them.”

Tim sat up fully and asked a question that had been gnawing angrily at him since he’d realized Kathryn had the same suspicions he did about the incident in the park. “Why didn’t you contact me? I could’ve helped. We could’ve tried to figure this out together before…” he trailed off, not exactly sure before what. Before Romero’s? Before he’d realized she lied to him about who she was?

Kathryn was quiet for a long time. He could, as usual, hear music playing in the background. It sounded jazzy and upbeat, a stark contrast to the heaviness of their conversation and her ensuing silence.

“I thought about it,” she admitted, finally. “I almost called you a few times. But it was my mess and I didn’t want to drag you down into it. Hell, you weren’t even there, officially.”

“Well, non-officially, I’m just as responsible as you. I killed just as many of them as you did. If you’re being framed for a vigilante murder, then I should be, too.”

“Don’t joke, Deputy. You stick to our story as it is, you got that? I’m not gonna be responsible for your—”

Tim tilted his head, listening carefully for any clue as to what had caused her to stop short. “Kathryn? You okay?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I thought I heard something, but I think it’s just my neighbor.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m still in Kentucky,” but she offered no further information. “Bottom line, Deputy, if anyone is gonna go down for this shitstorm, it’s me. You didn’t ask to be involved in this.”

“No, but I volunteered when you gave me an out. And I stand by what we did; those guys were fucking scumbags and the world is better without ‘em.”

“I agree, and I’m sure Agent Reed does, too, if he’s being honest. But his version of justice is extremely black and white. I myself have always fallen squarely in the grey.”

Tim twisted the phone cord between his fingers. Their conversation was over, he knew, but he wasn’t ready to hang up. He heard a rustling sound from Kathryn’s end that sounded like she’d laid down, and he wondered whether she felt the same.

He didn’t like investigating while the person who was essentially his partner twisted uncomfortably in the wind somewhere without backup. They should be working together, side-by-side, but there was no way he could bring her to the Marshals office without her being arrested, and he doubted Art would be so forgiving if he disappeared a second time.

“I should go,” she said. Tim’s heart sank a fraction of an inch and then she added, “I’ll contact you tomorrow if I can.” He hated that he smiled.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sittin’ on your house today. Any chores you’d like me to get done while I’m here? Plants that need watering?”

“Just don’t touch my liquor cabinet, Deputy. I know what a lush you can be,” she said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. That shit you drink tastes like the ass end of a firepit.” And he hated that his heart lifted back up when she laughed.

#

Tim spent the next several hours observing the details of Kathryn’s house because he didn’t have anything else to do. He’d tucked the two files and the notebook he’d found in his bag after he’d carefully reset the shelving in the basement. Kathryn’s house was small, so that left him little room to explore, but explore he did.

He started in the living room, letting his eyes roam over the colorful paintings she had on the walls. There were three of them—all bright impressionist things that looked like they were from a local artist. He also opened the cabinet under her television to find nearly a dozen black CD cases filled with movies and music. He flipped through a few of them, but nothing stood out as particularly interesting. He did have to admit that her tastes seemed more eclectic than he would have expected; her entertainment ran the gamut from Buster Keaton to John McClane, and he found the entire Billie Holiday songbook tucked between Aerosmith and Chopin.

He couldn’t help feeling somewhat insulted that, despite her broad tastes, she had obviously subjected him to the loudest, shittiest music in her collection.

Tim found the liquor cabinet pressed up against a wall in the dining room. Her collection here was more straightforward, a lot of scotch and a couple of bottles of gin. Despite what he’d told her, he considered trying a 25-year-old bottle with a stag on the bottle when it caught his eye, until he turned the box it had come in over and saw the price tag still stuck to the bottom.

Apparently, Kathryn was a more serious connoisseur than he’d realized.

It didn’t take long for Tim to have exhausted his explorations of everything except her bedroom. After sitting on the couch for almost an hour, determined to ignore the room entirely, he finally relented.

The walls in the rest of Kathryn’s house were a totally inoffensive shade of grey, every embellishment came from the furniture or the carefully chosen décor. Her bedroom was a different story. The walls in here were painted a deep, rich shade of teal that seemed to swallow the room whole. The ceiling was painted the same color, and it made Tim feel claustrophobic, like he was entering a cave. He noticed, too, that the curtains were designed to block out as much light as possible, which further contributed to the effect.

Desperate for some illumination, Tim turned on the overhead light and took in the rest of the room. Unlike every other space, this room had nothing on the walls. He also found it more than a little amusing that such a small person would have a king-sized bed, but he admired how crisply it was made, and he envied the array of extremely plush-looking pillows. In contrast to the darkness of the rest of the room, the sheets and duvet were printed with a vaguely geometric pattern in shades of coral and mint green.

As Tim’s eye scanned over the furniture; a single bedside table and a bureau made of dark wood, he noticed the Grizzlies shirt again, neatly folded and set out at the foot of the bed. He ran his fingers over the bear emblazoned on the front of it and wondered whether he should take it back. It was his, after all.

But would she miss it? Did he want her to?

He refused to think too much on it because he already knew the answers and he didn’t like them. Instead, he flicked the light back off and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

#

That night, Tim crawled into bed with the two folders he’d taken from Kathryn’s house, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. The Kentucky evening was so muggy that even his AC unit could only do so much, and he found himself sweating again as soon as he stepped out of the shower. He considered, not for the first time, moving north to the far reaches of Maine where he could hate the frigid winter air and snow instead of the cursing the heat and humidity.

Tim sat up against his headboard and pulled open the Boone file again, scanning the pages for what felt like the hundredth time, hoping to find something new. As he read back through the list of names Kathryn was trying to investigate, his eyes drifted over to the other folder he’d brought with him.

He stared at it, wondering what he might find inside. The file was incredibly thin, there couldn’t be more than a few pages inside. What could it hurt?

Tim placed the file in his hands on the table next to his bed, and he lifted the other into his lap before he reverently flipped open the folder. He had been right in thinking it there was hardly enough inside for it to be considered worthwhile. He found what he knew was a forged birth certificate, a social security card, and a couple of pages of medical records from hospital visits. The most recent sheet was dated the day after they parted ways at the courthouse.

There was nothing else particularly interesting; a list of passwords and account numbers. The rental agreement for the house.

Just as he was about to close the folder, something caught his eyes. Tucked at the very back was a folded newspaper clipping. He unfurled it carefully, mindful of the delicate newsprint.

It must have been from a small local paper because the story was inconsequential at best—a piece about an elementary school class performing songs at a nursing home on grandparents’ day. There was a list of a few showtunes they’d sung and there was a quote from their teacher about how excited they were to spend time making their community a better place. And in the upper right corner was a photograph of three of the students: “Brian Jackson (7), Cari Lauder (7), and Andrea Bunting (8),” all smiling toothy grins.

Tim recognized her immediately. Even if the name underneath was wrong, there was no denying one of the faces in the photo belonged to Kathryn. He wondered at the inclusion of the clipping. He flipped the page over, looking for any indication of when or where it was from, but there was nothing.

Not knowing what else to do, Tim folded the clipping carefully and placed it back in the folder, deciding to leave that line of inquiry until after they’d at least cleared her of federal murder charges.

#

When Tim woke up, he knew there was someone in his room; he could feel it in the air. It was still too dark, even for him, to have woken up without cause, and he hadn’t been dreaming. He had fallen asleep on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow, so he kept his breathing smooth and slow while he adjusted minutely to slide his right hand under his pillow, but the thing he was searching for was gone. The realization that someone had successfully removed the hunting knife he kept there without him waking up hit him like he’d swallowed a block of ice.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he heard a voice say—coming, he could tell, from his reading chair in the far corner—"but I’ve also taken the firearm from your table drawer.”

Tim rolled over cautiously and sat up fully so it would be easier to fight or defend himself if he needed. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I don’t need either one to kill you.”

He could almost feel her smiling at him in the dark. “I’d expect nothing less from a friend of Kathryn’s.”

The lamp he kept next to the chair clicked on, bathing the room in soft, yellow light. Tim was suddenly quite aware of the fact that he was shirtless, as the woman across from him was dressed in a crisp, expertly tailored suit.

“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, Deputy Gutterson. I thought it was time to finally meet you in person.”

“I’d like to say it’s a pleasure, Delia, but I don’t much care for strangers touching my things.”


	9. De-Classified

Tim was still trying to figure out whether he was annoyed or impressed by the woman sitting across from him. Despite the lamp, her face was still mostly shadowed, which he assumed was intentional. But what he could see still cut an intimidating figure; her long legs were gracefully crossed in a white pantsuit; bright blue stilettos adorned her feet. He couldn’t be totally sure while she was sitting, but he guessed she was nearly six feet tall. It was impossible not to draw the stark contrasts between the woman seated in his bedroom and the short redhead he’d come to know prior.

“This bourbon is terrible,” she remarked, as she took a sip from one of his glasses.

Definitely annoyed, he decided.

“Wasn’t expecting guests,” he said, and he licked his lips because all he wanted was a stiff drink of his own. Hearing about Kathryn’s enigmatic boss or mentor or whatever was one thing; having her steal his weapons from literally under his body was another. “If I’d known I’d be entertaining, I would’ve sprung for something from the Speedway’s second shelf.”

He thought he saw Delia smile in the shadows, but he couldn’t be sure. He shifted on his bed, hoping a new angle might provide a better look at her face while also bringing the sheet up a little higher so it covered his navel. Tim was by no means a prude, but he felt utterly naked without a shirt, a weapon, or a drink, while his uninvited guest enjoyed all three.

“So what can you tell me?” he asked, impatient and a little hopeful that a blunt question would invoke an equal response.

“That’s not really how this works, Corporal.”

Tim nearly flinched at the use of his Army rank. No one called him that anymore, and it left a sour taste in the back of his throat. “Then why don’t you finish your drink and get the fuck out of my apartment.” Tim fixed his fiercest glare in the general direction of Delia’s face, hoping the effect was at least somewhat intimidating, despite the fact that he couldn’t make direct eye contact. “I’ve got a day job, so if you don’t have pertinent information to share, I have zero interest in losing sleep for some girls’ night chitchat.”

Tim watched as Delia traced the rim of her glass with one delicate—and, he noticed, well-manicured—finger. “You know, when she originally asked me to meet you, I said no.”

Tim struggled not to roll his eyes. “What changed your mind?”

“She told me she’d lied to me about the work you did with her.”

That certainly piqued Tim’s interest for a moment and he watched as Delia’s finger stilled against the glass. She leaned forward, carefully uncrossing her legs and resting her forearms against her knees. For the first time, Tim got a good, clear look at her face and while she was older than he’d been picturing, to say she was striking would have been an understatement. Tim wasn’t totally sure what he’d been expecting from Kathryn’s Naomi Campbell comparison, but Delia was undeniably beautiful; high cheekbones and dark, intelligent eyes he knew had been studying him the entire time. She wore bright pink lipstick, but no other makeup that he could discern. Still, her skin looked like it was lit from within, like when you place your hand over a flashlight and the beam makes your palm glow.

She also looked vaguely familiar, and Tim’s brain screamed at him as he tried to figure out why.

“As long as I’ve known Kat, she has _never_ lied to me,” Delia said seriously, and Tim noted the nickname absently, “Not until now. She told me you’d left after your initial assignment, that she’d interrogated Ibsen alone, been in Daniel Boone alone. And then when I said I wouldn’t meet you, she told me none of that was true. She lied to me to protect you.”

Tim kept his face as neutral as possible, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain eye contact. Delia’s gaze was penetrating, and it made him uncomfortable.

“I had to meet the man Kat lied for.” She paused, weighing her next words. “Seeing you now, I’m not really surprised. You are exactly her type.”

“Dashingly handsome and rugged?”

“Dangerous and broken,” she answered evenly. And then she sat back, and her face settled once again in the shadows. Tim felt his shoulders relax a fraction. “And now that I know you were in Daniel Boone, I also know I have plenty of information to make sure you go to prison if anything happens to her.”

Tim grinned. “Fair enough,” he said.

“Now Corporal, I am about to tell you some things that are classified. I know that’s a line Kat likes to use to avoid answering questions, but when I say it, I mean it. Do you understand?”

Tim nodded. “Who do you work for?”

“For a long time, I worked for the CIA as an undercover operative, primarily in Northern Africa, though my duties took me plenty of other places.”

Tim sat up a bit straighter.

“The specific work I did for the Agency is not really important, but I think you should know that about me. After more than two decades, I was given the opportunity to retire from field work, and rather than continue with the Agency, I asked for a transfer to the Department of Homeland Security, which I was granted. DHS had recently reaffirmed its commitment to stopping human trafficking in the United States, and that’s what I wanted to do.”

Delia took a long, slow sip of her drink and Tim licked his lips again like a reflex, trying to taste the liquor himself.

“The one thing that remained constant throughout my time in the CIA—in every conflict, every country, and on every continent—was the exploitation of vulnerable people, particularly children. And I knew I wanted to be part of the solution to modern-day slavery in this country.

“Of course, it wasn’t anything like I expected it to be. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you the amount of bureaucratic red tape alone was a disgrace. I spent more time locking up victims for prostitution, returning them to the countries they’d been stolen from, or busting low-level offenders than anything else.”

Tim wasn’t surprised. He’d learned since his last tour ended that bureaucracy and paperwork were the two things federal law enforcement was best at.

“I made a little trouble at DHS because I felt like their whole campaign was just a PR stunt. I knew there was a lot more we could’ve been doing. All it earned me was a couple of write-ups and a demotion,” Tim thought he detected a wry grin in Delia’s words.

“The first time I met Kat was in West Virginia. I’d been kicked back to a regional position by then, and we’d finally busted this local group with 25 or 30 girls working for them,” she paused, “Fuck, you hear that? _Working for them_ , like that’s what happened. It pisses me off how the work perpetuates that type of language.”

Tim watched Delia toss back the rest of her drink and he wondered if he could get one of his own if she went for a second.

“This group had 30 girls, all teenagers, they were raping or having raped for money.” Tim squirmed uncomfortably against his headboard. “And Kat was one of them. She was claiming to be sixteen at the time, and that’s age of consent in a lot of states, including West Virginia. So there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do to protect her from being released into the custody of her abusers unless I wanted to have her arrested. Total bullshit, but there you have it.

“The next time I saw her was in Florida a few years later. I’d been brought in because I knew the guy they suspected as the head of the organization, and I saw her photo on the pile of known associates under a new name. I don’t know why, but there was something in her eyes I couldn’t shake.”

Tim knew what she meant. He had found there was something about Kathryn that pulled him in, whether he liked it or not. He wasn’t sure it was her eyes exactly, but her energy seemed to force a shift in his own center of gravity.

“How old was she by then?” he asked, genuinely curious. Kathryn had told him she’d been sixteen when Delia saved her, but according to Delia’s account, she would have been older.

“Honestly, Corporal, I have no idea. I’d say she was probably nineteen by then, but she thinks she was younger. She was so scrawny, she could’ve easily passed for fourteen.”

“You’re telling me she didn’t know how old she was?”

“It’s not like her pimps were throwing her a party every year, and she was so addled from the drugs, I’m surprised she still remembered her name. I’m sure she figured it out once her mind was clear, but she never…” Delia trailed off and Tim couldn’t help but prod her forward.

“A super sleuth like you never bothered to get her birth info?”

Delia leaned forward again, her mouth set in a hard line. “She had a different birth date listed on her info in Florida than she’d had in West Virginia, one of them might have been right, but I don’t know for sure. Maybe the DOB she gave me when we set her up with the Sarah Geller identity is her real one. Kat only asked me for two things after I got her out; that I call her by her middle name, and I leave her past alone. She didn’t want me digging around, and I agreed not to.” Delia looked up at him. “I’d ask the same of you, as a matter of respect.”

Tim thought about the newspaper clipping in the folder he’d taken, and how easy it would be to use that information to find Kathryn’s birth certificate, her parents, her social, her birth date.

Instead, he nodded.

“Anyway, these guys in Florida knew we were after them, so they started moving everybody, including Kat, to a new location. While the rest of the office was looking up their assholes trying to figure out where they were headed, I found her in a Backdoor listing.” Tim sensed some hesitation and then she elaborated, “I may have had a couple of drinks before I went in, guns blazing.

“Let me tell you, Corporal, I’ve killed plenty of people in war zones, committed other murders in more dangerous hotel rooms. But my hands never shook like they did when I was driving her out of there. I had no idea what I was doing, no clue where I was going to take her. So I just kept driving until we ended up at my house.”

Delia leaned back in the chair and Tim noticed she was slouching for the first time, her posture collapsed and resigned. For a moment, she finally looked her age.

“By the time I got back, the whole task force was running around like the sky was falling, trying to figure out which rival group had gotten involved. They assumed someone had decided to make a statement by killing the guys on duty. They also assumed that several of the girls, including Kat, had taken advantage of the situation to escape. I let them think it.”

Tim couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. When he realized Delia was waiting for an explanation, he said, “I’m just glad I’m not the only one she’s compromised professionally.”

An amused smile spread across Delia’s face. “Not by a long shot.”

“How was Romero involved?”

“He didn’t come into the picture until much later. Kat was the first victim I pulled out on my own, but she wasn’t the last. Six of them still work for me.”

“At DHS?”

Delia laughed as she settled back into her initial position; legs crossed and back straight. “I left DHS six years ago. I’m an entrepreneur now. Run a cleaning company and own some rental properties—”

“Stephanie Riley, LLC.” It wasn’t a question.

“Among others,” she said. “And I own a private security firm. Corporate stuff, mostly.”

Tim rolled this information around, letting it tumble in his skull until it took on a new, more coherent shape.

“So you’re telling me that you and Kat and whoever else are… vigilantes? You’re fucking Batman?”

“You can call us the Justice League if you want. What matters is we get results.”

“Romero?”

“You know as well as I do how instrumental a good CI can be. I met Romero at a conference. When you’ve worked like I have for as long as I have, you get a good read on people, and I identified him as someone who would be willing to bend the rules if it meant getting his man.

“He took on Kat as a CI, let her work her jobs for me using his resources, and she helped him make a good name for himself at the FBI.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.” Tim leaned his head back against the headboard. He wished Kathryn were here so he could strangle her. What the hell had she gotten him tangled up in? Some puzzles, it turns out, were better left unfinished. Some were better left in the box they came in.

#

After the realization that he was talking with Bruce Wayne, Tim had requested a drink and a shirt, which Delia had graciously agreed to. He tugged on a dirty t-shirt from the hamper next to his bed before pouring himself a tall, stiff drink. Delia remained in his reading chair, where she could easily track his movements through the apartment when his bedroom door was left open.

Tim resettled on the bed, sitting cross legged on top of the duvet, and took a long sip from the cool glass in his hands.

“So Corporal, what have you got for me?”

Tim shrugged. “Nothing much, to be honest. What happened at the park, after we secured the truck?”

“Kat called me, and I called it into the State Police. They called the feds.”

“So we’re looking for at least two dirty cops?”

“I’d say so.”

“Agent Reed?”

Delia shook her head. “No. Reed’s a pain in the ass, but he’s a good man. Any grief he’s giving you is just because he’s single-minded; focused on getting Kat for Romero’s murder.”

“What about Dawson?”

“I’ve only been in the same room as Vincent Dawson once, and it is not an experience I would like to recreate. He is a truly evil person, and not one to be taken lightly.”

Tim had already surmised as much, but it was nice to have the confirmation from someone who’d met the man. “Do you have any thoughts on who hired him?”

“Not yet.”

“So what do you suggest we do, then? My hands are mostly tied with the Marshals and Reed breathing down my neck. I don’t even know where Kathryn is.”

“Neither do I, and that’s the way it should stay.” Tim noticed Delia’s expression soften before she added, “Don’t worry about Kat. She can handle herself.”

“Even if she can, that doesn’t guarantee she won’t make an even bigger mess by doing so.” Tim was getting a headache just thinking about trying to explain away more dead bodies.

Delia leaned forward once more and levelled Tim with a serious gaze. “Tell Reed you have suspicions about what went down at Daniel Boone. Tell him you spoke with the Head Ranger—” of course Kathryn had told her, Tim realized, “and ask him for permission to follow those leads. If he thinks there’s a chance there are dirty cops in his jurisdiction, he’ll let you look into it. That will give you time to figure out that shit show while the rest of your comrades keep looking for Kat and Dawson.”

Tim nodded. It wasn’t a half-bad idea, and if Reed really was straight, then he had no reason to deny Tim the opportunity to investigate.

“I’ll start with the names Kathryn gave me.”

Delia nodded. “If I think of anyone else, I’ll let you know.”

They sat in a strange silence for a few moments. Tim spared a glace at the kitchen clock outside his bedroom door. It was nearly three am, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t be getting any sleep even after Delia left. He wondered how early was too early to head to the diner down the street for breakfast.

“Corporal,” Delia’s voice brought his focus back into the bedroom. “I am trusting you to have Kat’s best interests in mind, here. I don’t know shit about you except your service record and what she’s told me, so let me very clear: if anything happens to her, I will come for you and for anyone else who had even the slightest involvement.” Tim watched as she pulled a pair of white driving gloves from inside her blazer and tugged them on. “I never had a family of my own. Kat is the closest thing I have to a daughter. A sister. A friend,”

Tim weighed those words as Delia picked up his Bowie knife and pistol. He noticed the magazine and the chambered round had both been removed from the latter.

Delia walked over to the bed and held the weapons out toward him; a gesture of trust. He took them carefully and set them on the bed next to him. “If anything happens to her,” she continued, “someone is going to pay.”

Tim understood. He didn’t have any family of his own left, either. Maybe a stray uncle or cousin somewhere, but no one who meant anything. But if anyone ever came for someone from his Battalion, he imaged his response would be similar to Delia’s now.

“I know you care about her.” Tim was startled by how quiet Delia’s voice had become. The softness didn’t suit her. “I’m trusting you to help me bring her home, Corporal.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

Delia chuckled. She picked up the glass she’d used as she headed for the door, and Tim wondered if she was going to take it with her. She was likely paranoid enough to.

“What was the anniversary for?” His own question startled him. He hadn’t meant to ask it, but the lack of sleep, the booze, and the shock of the night’s revelations had weakened the normal defense system between his brain and his mouth.

Delia stopped in the doorway and turned to look back at him. He wondered how small and unimpressive he looked, sitting like a child at circle time in a stained, smelly t-shirt and boxer shorts.

“I pulled Kat out fourteen years ago. I was so nervous driving afterward that I didn’t realize how hungry I was until my stomach let out a rumble loud enough to make Kat jump in the passenger seat. So I pulled over at this dingy little pizza shop and ordered us each a slice.

“She just sat there, pulling the toppings off, but never eating them. I don’t know why, but I told her we should celebrate, which got her attention. I grabbed a stale piece of cake from the fridge and handed it to her. Told her we could do whatever she wanted to celebrate her freedom.” Delia smiled. It softened her face and Tim could see the obvious affection she had for Kathryn as she reminisced. Then she looked back at Tim and her smile grew even wider.

“She stood up and started dancing in the middle of the pizza shop.” Delia laughed. “And my dumb ass stood up and danced with her to the oldies station they were playing.”

Tim smiled, imaging this intimidating woman flailing her long limbs around to the crackle of The Flamingos or The Cadillacs.

“Every year since, she orders a pizza, eats some cake, and goes dancing. I usually celebrate with her, but couldn’t this year, for obvious reasons.”

“She made a helluva cake this year. You missed out.”

“Kat always wanted to learn how to bake. It was the first thing she told me she wanted to do, besides get her GED. She started with boxed mix and tubs of Betty Crocker frosting, but she’s gotten pretty good at it over the years,” Delia looked at her watch. “Not surprising, considering how quickly she can pick up most anything.”

Tim thought about the implications of that statement, coming from a person like Delia. He wondered what Kathryn’s unofficial training must have looked like in the time between her rescue and when he’d met her.

Delia cleared her throat and Tim tugged himself away from his thoughts with some effort to look at her.

“Get a burner and give the number to Kat. She’ll get it to me, and then I can contact you if I need to. You should have gotten one already, since you’ve spoken with her. You need a phone that can’t be traced back to the Marshals.”

Tim’s stomach clenched at the light rebuke. He should have been smarter about speaking with her. Even the time he had called from her own house could likely be traced back to him eventually.

“You need to start thinking like the people you arrest, Corporal. Like the people you’ve killed.” He flinched again.

And then Delia was gone, and Tim was left sitting alone with nothing but his racing thoughts and elevated heartrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This was a doozy to write & went through a couple different iterations. I hope you like the one I've settled with. Hope you are all well!
> 
> Ps. Updated Note as of 8/19... I sort of took liberties with the timeline here. I know that DHS wasn't founded early enough for it to really work given the years that Justified takes place in, but we're just gonna go with it at this point. As I said way back on the first part of this story, these OCs were initially created for an original story, which doesn't take place in the Justified timeline. I hope it doesn't ruin your enjoyment too much to suspend disbelief a bit. :)


	10. Second Breakfast

Tim poked halfheartedly at the short stack in front of him. He’d drowned the four small pancakes in more syrup than the entire country of Canada had a right to, and now he was not the least bit interested in eating them. He’d made quick work of the side of bacon he’d ordered, at least. The pretty young waitress with ‘Nicki’ on her name tag was busy pouring his fourth cup of dark coffee, for which he was extremely grateful, even if the scowl on his face gave no indication.

When he finally let the fork plunk down on the plate in front of him, Tim picked up the Tracfone sitting next to his coffee mug. He’d made a detour to a nearby gas station on his way to his 4AM breakfast, and he’d set it up while he waited for Nicki to return with his meal.

The phone only had one number in it, for now, so he pressed one and waited.

He would never understand how she always managed to answer so quickly. “Yes?”

“Kathryn, it’s Tim.”

“Oh! I wasn’t expecting it to be you.” Tim wondered whether she’d woken up or was still going from the night before. He wondered if she’d already spoken with Delia. Decided she probably had.

“It’s fine. Delia said you’d give her this number.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks.” In the pause that followed, Tim strained his ears and for the first time during one of their phone calls, he couldn’t hear any music playing on her end. He wondered why.

“She likes you,” she finally said.

Tim sneered. The last thing he needed was to be liked by a person like Delia, even if she was important to Kathryn. “Could you ask her not to call me Corporal, then?”

“Why?”

“It was a bullshit promotion I got after a shitshow of a mission that I don’t like to think about,” Tim almost had the decency to feel ashamed at the nastiness in his voice, but he couldn’t quite muster it, “Gutterson or Deputy or ‘Hey, Jackass!’ will work just fine.”

Kathryn’s response was measured, and Tim found himself wishing she’d rise to the bait and lash out at him instead. “I’ll let her know. I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it.”

Like Hell. Tim knew very well what she’d meant; to remind him of his service. Of his duty. To make him feel small and complacent liked he’d been back then, so he would follow orders like a good soldier. Delia had read any files that existed of his time in the Rangers. She’d specifically said she knew his service record. She was smart enough to figure out the rest, and calling him by his ill-begotten rank was just another manipulation.

“You can let her know I’ll be speaking with Reed today. If I have any other updates, I’ll let you know.”

There was another pause and Tim wondered for a moment whether Kathryn had hung up. He’d seen her abruptly flip her phone closed at the end of a conversation without any sort of goodbye plenty of times before.

He was just about to hang up himself when he heard her release a slow breath into the receiver. “It’s early. I hope you’ve got some strong coffee this morning.”

“That and plenty of pancakes.” Nicki returned to refill his cup again and he smiled at her. “My girl Nicki’s got me covered, don’t you worry.”

The young woman blushed at Tim’s wicked grin and ducked away from the table as quickly as she could, scurrying away to the relative safety of the kitchen with a strange giggle.

“Don’t scare her, Deputy.”

Tim’s smile remained. “What makes you say that?”

“I’m not sure you know how intimidating your flirtations can be,” she said, and he snorted into his coffee, narrowly missing a spill that would have sent him back home for a new shirt.

“How would you know? I don’t recall ever flirting with you.”

“My mistake, then,” she said. But they both knew it wasn’t. “I’ll let Delia know. Hope to hear from you again soon.”

“You could always call me, too, you know.”

“I suppose I could, but I prefer being pursued.”

“Careful what you wish for. You’re about to have every Marshal in the country _pursuing_ you.”

“Well, there’s only one of them I care about, Deputy.”

Try as he might, Tim couldn’t for the life of him come up with a witty retort, and so he let the conversation die before he embarrassed himself any further.

“Have a good day, Kathryn.”

“You too, Tim.”

As he hung up, Tim decided he would never call Kathryn before sunrise again. His brain was too fuzzy and slow for her without it. He downed the coffee in his mug and waved the empty cup at Nicki, who rushed back over to refill it with a fresh pot.

As she leaned over the counter toward him, he smelled something new and sweet, and when he looked at her face, he noticed she’d applied some lipstick that wasn’t there before.

Tim felt satisfied that Kathryn didn’t know a goddamn thing about his flirting technique. He stabbed into his soggy pancakes and took a healthy bite, too much syrup and all.

#

By the time five o’clock rolled around, Tim could no longer indulge Nicki’s coy smiles while drinking her burnt coffee, so he paid his bill, leaving a hefty tip and ignoring the phone number scrawled at the bottom of the slip she handed him.

When he entered the Marshals office, two things were immediately clear. First, Tim would get to speak with Reed much earlier than he’d anticipated. Second, the agent in question had definitely spent the night in the conference room. Reed was leaned back in his chair, his legs propped up on the table before him as he read through a lengthy document. Tim poured himself yet another cup of coffee—he refused to count the number—and then steeled himself for the conversation he needed to have, hoping the fact that Reed didn’t know him well would work in his favor as he lied through his teeth.

Reed looked up from the pages in his hands as Tim pulled the door open. “’Morning, Deputy Gutterson. Bit early for you, isn’t it?”

Tim shrugged, “Couldn’t sleep.”

Reed lowered his feet and his chair hit all fours with a _clack_. Tim sipped his coffee, trying to decide how best to begin the conversation.

“We’re tracking some new leads on Dawson that came in from the DEA overnight.”

This caught Tim’s attention and he took the printout Reed handed him. It showed a man who certainly looked like Dawson’s outside a convenience store in Northern Virginia. Tim hoped Kathryn was still somehow in Kentucky, far away from the man in the photo.

Reed continued, “I sent some of my task force up there to coordinate with the local Marshals office in D.C. I’m hoping we won’t lose track of him this time. This is the best lead we’ve had in weeks.”

Tim nodded, studying Dawson’s face in one of the photos. He seemed to be staring straight into the camera, almost daring whoever was looking at the feed to try and find him. Tim was glad he wasn’t part of the D.C. squad.

“That’s good,” he said, handing the photos back to Reed. “I actually had something I wanted to ask you about,” he said, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could.

Reed slapped the papers back down on the table, eyeing the Marshal across from him with something adjacent to suspicion. “Shoot.”

“Daniel Boone.” Reed’s eyebrows shot up, having clearly expected something else, “Is there any other info on the incident there?”

The agent frowned, leaning forward to sift through some of the scattered folders. Tim decided that organization was clearly not Matthew Reed’s strong point. Tim heard the man mumble a few curses under his breath as he searched for what he was looking for, until he finally grunted, tossing a folder to Tim that the younger man just barely caught.

“That’s everything we have.”

Tim scanned through the pages in his hands. There were photos of dead men and the trailer, but it was empty. There were also photos and descriptions of evidence collected at the scene, including blood spatter and weapons. And then there was the statement from the driver of the mini van Kathryn had confronted. The man had apparently driven straight out of the park and to the nearest police station to report the incident.

“What was in the truck?” Tim asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Nothing.”

Tim’s eyes flew up to meet the other man’s level gaze. “Then why were they there?”

Reed shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. But Tim could see in his face that his interest was piqued, which was all Tim needed. “My gut tells me there were drugs either in the truck or being delivered to it that were lost in transit. Maybe taken by Sarah Geller or whoever she was working with.”

Tim made a show of perusing the file again. “It doesn’t say there were any other suspects present.”

“I don’t see how she could have done all that damage herself. My personal opinion is that there was as least a second shooter, maybe two.”

“Your agents never pursued the truck or tried to find out what happened to its contents?”

Reed uncrossed his arms, leaning forward onto the conference room table. “Why so interested, Gutterson? What are you thinking?”

Tim saw his opening and he took it, flipping the folder back onto the table easily. “I stopped by the park last week to talk with the Head Ranger there. It sounds like the officers onsite were pretty cagey about the whole thing, not letting the rangers on duty anywhere near the scene. Both state and federal officers were in the park that night.” Tim paused for dramatic effect more than anything, making it look as though he was gathering his thoughts by looking pointedly out into the still-dark office. “I think this case might be more tied to Romero’s murder than it appears. _My_ gut tells me there was something valuable in that truck, and I’d like to know who took it, whether it was Geller or the cops who ended up processing the scene.”

Tim leaned back, clasping his hands over his stomach and waiting for Reed to respond. He twisted the chair back and forth, something he knew would irk the agent and hopefully spur him to a quicker decision.

“You want permission to look into this?”

Tim smirked, “I mean, I don’t technically work for you, and investigating this sort of thing isn’t really in the Marshal Service’s purview. But I figured since I’m part of the task force, there might be some leeway there.”

“How long?”

“Three days.”

Reed nodded, stretching his arms until his shoulders popped and then standing from his chair. “Keep me informed. If you need help--”

“I’m good,” Tim said, “I work better alone.”

Reed eyed him cautiously as he gathered his blazer and tie from the back of another chair. “I’ll let Art know I’m borrowing you for a few days. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna use the gym shower before anyone else gets in.”

Tim waved his hand in front of nose. “Lucky them.”

Reed’s laugh surprised Tim. Not only because he hadn’t been expecting it, but it was a strange hybrid between a child’s giggle and an old man’s snort. It didn’t fit Reed at all and was honestly a little horrifying. Tim smiled awkwardly in response, unsure of whether it was the right response.

“Let me know what you find out, Gutterson. If there are dirty cops buried somewhere in this case, I want them found and locked up just as much as Geller.”

Tim nodded, picking up his coffee and downing the rest like a shot of tequila. “You got it.”

As Reed disappeared out into the hall, Tim gathered some items from his desk and headed back out to his car, glad that he was able to avoid running into any of his fellow Marshals. Despite all the caffeine, Tim lacked the energy to explain himself to anyone who knew him even half as well as Reed; they would have seen straight through his bullshit.

#

And so it was that Tim Gutterson found himself sitting in a grocery store parking lot at 10:15 in the morning, eating a cold sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit from the Speedway, waiting for a acneic twenty-something named Spencer Lee to finish his shift.

Despite the sandwich’s obvious lack of quality, Tim found the abundance of sodium and the sticky, plastic-tasting cheese a great comfort. How many days had he eaten shit like this as a kid? Fifty-cent Coca-cola and a dollar for the sandwich, sent off to school straight from the drive thru by his too-weary-to-cook mother.

He hated to admit it, but Tim enjoyed the sticky gas station breakfast a lot more than the objectively better quality one he’d paid for at the diner. When he’d finished his second breakfast of the day, he licked his fingers clean and brushed them against his shirt, leaving a greasy stain down the front.

Tim sat in his car, watching people come and go for a little over an hour before he saw Spencer stop bagging groceries and head toward the back of the store. Tim waited a few moments and then pulled his car behind the building, just as Spencer emerged from an employee exit and popped a cigarette into his mouth. Tim pulled up close to him and rolled the window down.

“Heya, Spence!” Tim enjoyed watching the boy’s mouth go a little slack, lighter poised halfway between his pocket and his mouth.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Tim yanked out his badge and flashed it unabashedly. “Deputy U.S. Marshal, asshole. You got a minute?”

Tim didn’t even both hiding his amused smile as the cigarette fell limply from Spencer’s now fully slackened mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I promise I haven't forgotten about this story. Hope you are all well. <3


	11. Scotland the Brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?? Two chapters in less than 24 hours?? I told you I hadn't forgotten about this story! ;)

Spencer turned out to actually not be such a bad kid, just a little rude. Once he’d gotten over his initial shock, he’d quickly agreed to speak with Tim on the condition that the latter get out of his car and Spencer got to have his cigarette because he only got two 15-minute breaks his entire shift.

“So Spence, you worked here long?”

Spencer shrugged, finally lighting his cigarette with only slightly trembling fingers. “A while, I guess.”

“Where’d you work before?”

Spencer paused, took a long drag of the cigarette. Too long, it turned out, as he sputtered and coughed, thumping a fist against his chest. “Why?” he finally choked out.

Tim looked at the young man in front of him, could see the way his whole body was tense and unsure. At least it would be easy to tell when the kid was lying, he was shit at schooling his body language. A relief, Tim thought, after all the other inscrutable individuals he’d dealt with related to this case.

“Because,” Tim said, drawing out the final syllable with a long, buzzing emphasis.

“I was a junior ranger over at Daniel Boone State Forest,” Spencer said, taking a more measured approach to his next inhalation.

“Why’d you leave?”

Spencer’s leg started bouncing against the concrete, his knee jittery under his long grocer’s apron. “Listen, man, I’m not trying to get anybody in trouble.”

“What makes you think someone’s gonna be in trouble?”

“I’m not trying to get _me_ in trouble, all right?”

Tim adjusted his line of inquiry. “Tell me what happened with the truck.”

There it was; the dawning realization in Spencer’s eyes. Now that he was sure Tim already knew about that night, he felt like it was okay to say something. “Fuck, dude, I’m still not really sure what happened.”

“Try and figure it out. For me,” Tim said, leaning back against the side of his car with an effortlessness he did not feel inside. Rather, his brain felt coiled like a spring, intent to hold onto every syllable of whatever Spencer was about to tell him.

“It was late. Uh… I don’t know what time, but it was dark. And I was supposed to already be home, but my boss, Ranger Warren? He’d asked me to stay late.”

“Why?”

Spencer shrugged, tugging the last remnants of tobacco from the stub of his cig. “We’d had some guys come in after hours on ATVs. It happens a lot, but that week they’d run over a designated wildflower area and a protected wetland, so he thought maybe we’d try and catch ‘em, I guess.”

Tim nodded. “Go on.”

“So it was late and the phone rang and I answered it because Grady… sorry, uh, Ranger Warren, was in the shi- - the bathroom,” he corrected himself, “And it was this lady.” Spencer paused, looking at his watch and then deciding to light another cigarette. “At first, I thought it was a prank call. I almost hung up on her, but she sounded… mean, I guess. Like a teacher or something.”

Tim snorted, thinking of Delia in her white suit trying to wrangle a room full of snotty, dirt-caked second graders. “What did she say to you?”

“She gave me coordinates, and she told me to call the State Police. She gave me a message to give them.”

“What was the message?”

“I don’t remember, uh, _exactly_. I wrote it down then, but I don’t know now. Something… something about a package from a Russian guy, I think? I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

Tim had the urge to shoot the kid right in the foot. Just once, couldn’t someone be more than half-helpful? “Okay, then what?”

“She hung up. Real quick. And I… uh… I called the State Police number we have at the desk.”

“Who did you talk with?”

“A guy named Nettles. I remember because I thought it was a weird name, like the plant or whatever.”

“And did they come?”

“The police?”

Tim almost rolled his eyes, but managed to keep his gaze level, though his teeth ground together as he answered, “Yes. Did the police come?”

Spencer nodded, tugging a hair off his tongue. “Yeah, maybe ten minutes later. When Ranger Warren got back, they were already driving in, so I filled him in.”

“Was Nettles there?”

“Dunno. But a guy named Anderson came in and told us not to let anyone down the road, and to stay in the Ranger Station unless he called us. I remember him because that guy was a _dick_. Talked to us like we were morons. And he had some stupid porno ‘stache, too.”

Tim smiled. At least tracking down Anderson sounded like it would be easy enough. “Then what?”

Spencer kicked at the concrete, scraping the toe of his shoe and leaving a light grey scuff in the fake leather. “I went out to see what they were doing.” Tim smirked and Spencer caught him. “I didn’t… I was just curious, I swear. So I fibbed a little to Grady and told him Anderson had asked me to bring the troopers some flashlights. Grady’s a little, uh…” Spencer gestured around his middle, “He’s a little flabby, so he didn’t mind me offering to do it myself. I took one of our four-wheelers and cut through the woods and when I got there…”

Spencer trailed off, sucking on the butt end of his cigarette without realizing he was out of paper. He yelped a little when he burned his finger, and then he stomped the end out on the ground, checking his watch and looking over his shoulder toward the door he’d emerged from.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tim said, “I’ll tell your boss I’m the reason you’re late.”

This seemed to satisfy Spencer and he slid down the side of the building to sit on the ground, resting his hands on his propped up knees, fiddling with his singed fingers. “I never… I’d never seen a dead person before. And there were… there were a lot of them. The smell…”

Tim felt bad for the kid. He remembered the first time he’d smelled death like that. It was neither a pleasant memory, nor one he would ever forget.

“I didn’t know it would smell like that. The police were just wandering around, looking at everything. And there was a truck there? My pa used to be a long-haul trucker. He moved farm equipment and I just, I don’t know, for whatever reason, I just thought that must be what was in the truck because I couldn’t see in from where I was, but then… then these _girls_ started coming out of it.”

Tim willed his jaw to relax. “Where were they going?”

Spencer looked up at him, eyes wide and earnest. “The cops had brought a van. They were getting in the van. And then… then more people came with another van, and they got in there, too.”

“What other people?”

“They were in suits, mostly,” he said and Tim knew those were the feds who had been onsite.

“Anyway, they started moving into the woods to keep looking for stuff, I guess? So I left and went back to the Station. I didn’t say nothin’ to Grady, just told him they didn’t need the flashlights after all and sat back down.”

“Anything else?”

“Anderson and this other guy came by a while later, after a few hours, I guess. And they told us not to mention anything to anybody. Told us they were handling it, that it was federal business.”

“Did you get the other guy’s name?”

Spencer shook his head. “No, he had a suit on, no name tag like Anderson. He did flash a badge that said FBI. Scared the shit out of me.”

“Were you high then, too?” Tim asked and was satisfied by the suitably surprised look Spencer flashed him.

“Listen, man, I thought being a junior ranger was just gonna be a lot of smoking and walking in the woods. I didn’t… I didn’t sign up for that shit, and yeah, I was high and that fed almost made me piss myself!”

“It’s okay, Spence, I’m not gonna tell on you. Is there anything else?”

Spencer shook his head again. “Not really. Just… I went back the next day and everything was gone except… there was still the blood on the road. I could still smell it.” Spencer tilted his head back against the side of the store and closed his eyes. “I quit a few weeks later, I think, I don’t remember when exactly.”

Tim took a moment to digest the information. At least now he had a line on where to find his first dirty cop. And hopefully that would lead him to the next one, and quickly.

Suddenly, the employee door slammed open, narrowly missing Spencer as he sprang to the side. “Spencer, what the fuck! I told you last time…” The balding, red-faced manager stopped when he saw Tim. “Who the fuck are you?”

“You know, that’s the second time someone’s asked me that today.” Tim turned away from the sputtering man, tugging a card out of his wallet and handing it out to Spencer. “Thanks for your help, Spence. If you think of anything else, you give me a call, okay?”

Spencer stood up and brushed the back of his pants off before grabbing the proffered card. “Yes, sir.” The young man ducked back into the store, but he paused in the doorway. Without looking back at Tim, he asked, “What happened to them? The girls?”

Tim softened, just a little. “That’s what I’m trying to find out, kid.”

And then Spencer ducked back into the store, leaving Tim with the angry tomato-faced manager. He yanked out his badge again.

“Deputy U.S. Marshal Timothy J. Gutterson. Thank you for your cooperation.”

He didn’t wait for a response as he piled back into his car and drove off in the direction of Daniel Boone Forest once again.

#

Tim knew it was early, but he was too fucking tired to care and too fucking irritable to bother pushing himself. So when he made it almost to the State Police station he was looking for, he pulled off the main road intending to find a parking lot where he could sleep in his car for the night. Instead, he found himself pulling into the same X-shaped motel he and Kathryn had used the night after they’d thought they’d secured the truck.

He wasn’t exactly sure why he asked for the same room, but he did, and once he stepped inside, he immediately regretted the impulsive decision to do so. There must have been other motels. And he knew there were other rooms. Why had he chosen this one?

Tim made sure the door was locked behind him, and then the found himself pulled toward the bathroom. He turned on the light and leaned against the doorframe, staring at the tub. It looked clean, but he couldn’t help remembering how dark red-brown the water had been as Kathryn had patched herself up that night.

He decided against a shower, but he washed his face and brushed his teeth before tugging on a clean pair of boxers and a white t-shirt to sleep in. When he looked at the bed, his stomach fluttered embarrassingly. He remembered the way Kathryn had raked her fingernails against his scalp, how gently she’d touched him that night in some strange post-massacre ritual.

He remembered how good it had felt to have someone touch him like that.

“Jesus Christ, Gutterson, get it together.” Tim plunked himself down in the chair in the corner, which had been moved and therefore held no strange or heavy meaning. He took a few long, measured breaths in through his nose and released them from his mouth with a sigh. He checked his pulse—it was racing. He knew this was bad fucking news and he didn’t frankly have the time or the energy to deal with it. Instead, he willed his body to simply stop acting like an asshole.

This approach had no effect whatsoever.

As he tried to think of another way out of the oncoming panic attack, his phone rang. But when he picked it up from the pile of clothes he’d left folded in the bathroom, the screen was dark. Then he realized it was his _other_ phone. His sneaking-around-like-a-goddamn-criminal phone. He scrambled to pick it up before it went to voicemail.

“Hello?”

“Geez, Deputy, if you didn’t want to talk to me, you could’ve just said so.”

“We can’t all answer with the speed of some weird cellphone ninja,” he said, and he sprawled his body across the comforter, too tired anymore to care. He took a few more cleansing breaths.

“You okay?” Her voice was soft, the teasing edge from just a moment before utterly undetectable.

“’mfine,” he mumbled, knowing he was not being entirely convincing. “What do you need?”

“Just checking in. How was Reed?”

“Surprisingly pliant,” he said, “He agreed to give me a few days to see what I can dig up on the truck and… fuck, you know, I don’t need to explain it.”

“Did you find anything today?”

“Jesus, Kathryn, I’m _tired_ , can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“No,” she said, and Tim’s eyes flew open. He was tired of this—exhausted. He didn’t owe her or Delia anything and if they wanted to ruin his career, then fuck it, let them. At this point, he just wanted some fucking sleep and for his brain to stop feeling so full and jumbled.

“Fuck off, Kathryn, I’m going to bed. We can talk tomorrow or not, I don’t really give a shit.”

Tim jabbed the little red ‘end’ button with a ferocity he typically reserved for giving other drivers the finger when they didn’t know how to merge. There was a pressure behind his eyes that he knew wouldn’t go away without booze or sex, and he wasn’t getting either of those. With each passing moment, the dream of sleep felt farther and farther removed from his reality.

The phone was ringing again and Tim answered with a shout. “What the fuck do you want?!”

“Sorry,” she said, and she sounded almost demure. If Tim didn’t know any better, he’d think she actually meant it.

“What do you want, Kathryn? I really don’t have the energy—”

“I’m sorry, Tim. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t want to talk about the case, Kathryn.”

“Not about the case. Not about any of it. How are you? Are you feeling okay? You sound…”

“ _What_?” he asked, and the single syllable dripped with every once of anger and malice and frustration he’d felt over the past few weeks.

“You sound like you’re having a shitty fucking day, and I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

Tim couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Right. Of course. What, you gonna come hold my hand?”

“If you want,” she said, “Might take me a minute, though.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m not in Kentucky.”

“Not in Virginia either, I hope?” Tim caught his mistake a moment too late.

“Why’s that?”

Tim massaged the bridge of his nose. The dim lights of the room suddenly seemed far too bright. “Dawson. They got footage of him up in Northern Virginia.”

Kathryn’s end of the conversation went very quiet. He thought he could hear her writing something down, but he couldn’t be sure over the sound of…

“Are those fucking _bagpipes_?”

He hated that Kathryn’s laugh made his chest feel lighter. “Sure are. PBS has a special on the Black Watch.”

“What the hell is that?”

“A Canadian pipe band.”

Tim located the remote for the tiny little TV on the bureau. He turned it on and flipped down to channel 003. Sure enough, the sound of militant drums and bleating bagpipes filtered through the static. He turned the volume down to just above a whisper and settled himself into a more comfortable position against the headboard.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a fan of this,” he said.

“I’m not, really. I just love watching people who are very, very good at what they do. The precision in their movements is hypnotizing.”

Tim could see what she meant, though his background in the military meant he’d seen his fair share of such displays, and he was much less impressed by it than his phone companion seemed to be.

“Do they always wear skirts?’

“Uh-huh. I do love a man in a kilt,” she said, back to teasing him.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, lifting his fingers back up to check his pulse. It was still elevated, but slowing down.

“Please do.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence for the next few minutes, each content to listen to the other breathe as they both watched the same program from their respective motel rooms, miles and miles away from each other.

“Are you doing okay, Deputy? You scared me there for a minute.”

“It’s been a rough couple weeks,” he said. He was too tired to dodge her questions anymore or pretend like this case—like just knowing her—wasn’t taking an immense toll on him. “This case makes me feel like I’m neck deep in quicksand and pig shit.”

“I hear you there,” she said, “Nothing much on this end feels any easier, for what it’s worth.”

“Where are you, Kathryn?”

She sighed, “I’m in Tennessee. Nowhere near Virginia, but I’m going to let Delia know because she’s in D.C. quite a bit these days. I don’t like the idea that maybe he’s looking for her.”

“I get the feeling Delia can handle herself well enough. Just worry about yourself.”

“You don’t think I can handle myself? I thought you had more faith in me, Deputy.”

“I don’t trust you as far as I could spit a rat,” he said, and he immediately regretted it because he knew she could tell that he meant it. The truth was, any trust he had in her had dissipated when he’d found out she was never an agent of any kind. When he had realized she’d lied to him about everything from her name and age to occupation. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to trust her again, not entirely. The silence that followed his confession weighed heavily between them as the pipes began a blared and grating rendition of ‘Amazing Grace.’

“I should probably let you get some sleep.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to get much,” he confessed, still sitting with his back against the stiff wooden headboard. “I’m back at the motel we went to after Boone.”

“Feeling nostalgic?”

“Feeling stupid for not sleeping in my car.”

“Well, I hope you can get some rest. You deserve it,” she paused, and Tim could sense her hesitation even without seeing her; like she was perched at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean and was considering whether she should jump. “I hope that whatever is hurting you tonight gets better. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And she hung up without giving him a chance to respond.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, and he took his pulse again. Almost back to normal.

How talking with someone who frustrated him so much could help pull him back from the brink of an episode made no sense to his exhausted mind, but he was glad for the effect of Kathryn’s presence, even if it had only been her voice.

His feelings toward Kathryn seemed to waiver by the minute, and it was exasperating. He wanted her and missed her, but she’d also dragged him unwillingly into a mess he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to clean up. And there was nothing he hated more than being fucking lied to, especially by someone he considered a comrade, no matter how briefly.

Still, he supposed Kathryn had also been pulled into all this without her consent, hadn’t she? Was it fair to hold her accountable for choices he’d made that had entangled them together far longer than either of them had meant? Tim was certain that if it weren’t for Romero’s murder, he never would have seen Kathryn again. It wasn’t as though she’d intended for him to meet Delia or be dragged into her mysterious orbit, careening toward some faraway destination in the dark cosmos.

Tim took another series of deep breaths. The pressure behind his eyes was returning again, and he knew that trying to unravel his feelings about Kathryn the person and Sarah the vigilante was a futile endeavor, at least for now. He focused on the sound of the bagpipes, willing his muddled thoughts to drift away to the part of his mind he kept resolutely locked; the dark corner reserved for memories and emotions left ignored and unresolved, for better or worse.

Tim left the television on as he slid himself beneath the stiff sheets. He turned onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow, knowing he’d only smell whatever overly perfumed detergent the motel used to bleach away the gross and inevitable leavings of their guests, but hoping that somehow, maybe, he’d smell her instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there, folks, so thanks for sticking with this long, complicated tale. I hope I've kept it interesting enough to make up for all of the tangled conspiratorial threads. :)


	12. Sugar

The rest was brief and the nightmares intense.

Tim startled awake, drenched in cool sweat. His mouth was uncomfortably dry, and his tongue felt like it had been packed in gauze.

He thought he might vomit, but his stomach seemed noncommittal.

When he sat up, Tim Gutterson drove his palms into his eye sockets hard, like he was trying to wring the images from his orbital nerves by force.

He checked the clock and realized he’d been asleep about four hours; it was nearly 2AM. His neck ached, his splenius capitis felt like it had been used for a game of double-dutch as he’d slept; stretched like a canvas and taut with anxiety.

 _Shower,_ he thought, slowly, and he nearly crawled off the bed and into the tub, the migraine spreading from his neck up the back of his skull, making its way to his forehead. Each drop of water felt like a bass drum, or maybe a bomb. He could hear the phantom bagpipes blaring raucously in his ears even though he’d turned off the television before he’d gone to sleep.

His brain was screaming for something he couldn’t give it. Silence. Peace. Darkness.

Forgiveness? Who fucking knew.

Eventually, he retched into the bottom of the bathtub and closed his eyes rather than watch his sick swirl down the drain in a dizzying reminder of his failures. The dim lights in the motel were too bright. The water droplets too sharp. His skin was too hot, but he was shivering.

This shit, he decided, was why he drank.

At least the bourbon was straightforward. Drink too much, get a hangover. Drink just enough, pass out in a warm puddle of your own drool.

But the memories, the ghosts… there was no reasoning. They came when they felt like it, left when inconvenient, and they took hold of his body in a way he could neither predict nor control. He was a man possessed by circadian turbulence.

Tim’s fingers and toes were wrinkled and pale. Too much water.

 _Not enough water._ His mouth was still painfully dry. He opened it and let the stream from the showerhead sate his thirst.

Tim stood, swaying, and stumbled for a towel, wrapping it around his waist with no thought for how much water he trailed behind him on the floor. He considered the bed, decided against it. Sat on the floor and leaned his head back against the chair instead.

He’d been soaking for an hour, but it felt simultaneously like millennia and a minute. He knew he needed to sleep. He knew without rest he would not be able to perform the necessary tasks to get through tomorrow. Today. Whatever.

He thought about calling Kathryn, decided against it.

He needed something to eat.

Tim reached for his go bag, flopping stupidly across the itchy carpet rather than stand again, and dug around until he found a couple of stale granola bars, which he shoved into his mouth in quick succession.

They were the gross oatmeal raisin ones he usually threw away, but they would have to do for now. He couldn’t drive anywhere until his vision stopped swimming.

He closed his eyes again, still craning his neck uncomfortably against the chair. The light from the bathroom spilled out of the open door, and he winced against it, turning his head to the side and letting the ugly yellow fabric scratch against his cheek. The sensation was safe and familiar; cheap polyester rubbing his skin until it was almost raw.

He scraped his cheek gently back and forth, focusing on the sensation; ignoring everything else—feeling, thought, memory—until the scratching of the fabric and the repetitive sound it made were all that remained.

#

Tim’s mother had favored those ugly floral prints that were so popular in the ‘80s. When he was a kid, it was rare to see her without an array of gawdy red roses splashed across some part of her outfit, usually paired with acid washed denim and too-big earrings.

When he thought about his childhood, the first thing he saw was a floral vest, polyester and acetate, waiting for him over a chambray button down after school. He’d run up and jump into her arms, and the vest would sting his cheek as he hugged her fiercely.

_Well hello, sugar._

But it was _her_ , the warmth of her arms and the low chuckle at his antics, that made the vest feel like home.

His mother had always worn too much perfume. Sometimes he’d walk into her bedroom in the morning to see if she was ready to leave for school and the heady floral scent would sting his eyes. She’d be teasing her hair as big as she could, smiling at him in the vanity mirror and calling him “sugar,” which he said he hated, but now secretly missed. And she’d ask why his eyes were watering.

These are the moments he wanted to remember. Not the dinners or the nights. He wanted to remember the sting of her vest, not of his father’s hand. Not the tears after.

_Come here, sugar, it’s okay._

He wanted to smell too much cheap perfume, not stale beer and cigarettes.

He wanted to believe that he could be like her; smiling and loving even when she had no right to be. Even when her cheek was split open and ugly purple. Even when her arm was in a sling again and she had to go to the dentist to repair the chip in her tooth for the third time.

Even when Tim left her there, alone with him.

_Stay safe, sugar. Come back, you hear me?_

He refused to think about the last time he’d seen her, too skinny and no hair, and smaller than she’d ever been. No florals or denim or perfume. Just tubes and death and forgiveness he didn’t deserve.

No, he would hold on to that fucking polyester vest, pull it close and never let go of it.

_Don’t let go, sugar._

#

The sun was just slipping in around the curtains. Tim’s neck was stiff, but for different reasons this time. He was still on the floor, and his back let him know it had been a bad idea to sleep sitting up.

He wiped the dried drool from his chin, noted the dark stain it’d left on the seat cushion, and pushed himself to his feet. The towel fell to the floor and he shivered, goosebumps peppering his legs and arms.

The headache remained, but it was a dull concerto instead of an agonizing symphony. This he could handle.

It was 5:32, and Tim Gutterson stretched every muscle in his body until it popped and screamed. Then he got dressed, packed his shit, and headed to the nearest gas station for a breakfast sandwich, black coffee with too much sugar, and a bottle of Jim Beam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be honest, this was not the chapter I set out to write initially, but it's what came out & I think that's okay.


	13. Anderson 360

Everything had gone red.

He wasn’t sure exactly how long it had taken to go wrong, but it hadn’t been right away. At least he’d held his shit together for a little while.

He’d called Kathryn, hadn’t he? Shit. Had he? Was she coming?

Was anybody coming?

He had to wash his hands, at least. Needed to change his shirt. But when he walked into the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror, he was paralyzed.

There was too much blood. He’d gone too far, and now he was utterly fucked.

#

Trooper Nettles had proven to be exceptionally eager to help. Not only was he amendable to providing Tim with the details of the night he’d received the call from Spencer, but he was more than happy to offer Sergeant Anderson’s home address, since he was off for the next few days and the Marshal made it clear his inquiry was time sensitive. Tim made sure to thank him exuberantly for the professional courtesy.

Tim had sat outside Chad Anderson’s house for almost five hours before he’d caught a glimpse of the guy, pulling into his driveway on a vintage red Yamaha YR1. A beautiful bike, Tim had to admit, but the guy looked like a douche riding it in his Miami Vice button down and yellow aviators.

Tim approached Anderson before he’d even gotten the kickstand fully down, flashing his badge and his shit-eattingest grin as he did so. “Sergeant Chad Anderson?” he asked, enjoying the furrowed brow his question garnered.

“Yessir, and you are?”

“Deputy U.S. Marshal Tim Gutterson. Hoping you can help me with some background on a fugitive case.”

Anderson extended his hand and Tim took it, trying not to grimace at the clammy palm. Anderson’s dark brown hair was slicked back—with sweat or product, Tim wasn’t sure—and Spencer certainly hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d called his facial hair a porn ‘stache. The guy looked like a cartoon of a long-lost ‘70s ideal.

“Come on in, Deputy Gutterson.”

“Call me Tim.”

The house itself was nice, but Tim got the distinct feeling that wasn’t because of Chad. The colors were all soft pastels and he wondered if there was a girlfriend or maybe an ex-wife somewhere who was responsible for the décor.

Anderson walked to the fridge and grabbed a beer, twisting the cap off and offering it to Tim, who refused as politely as he could. He’d had enough bourbon while he waited that he probably shouldn’t even be speaking to someone in a professional capacity, and a beer seemed somehow a bridge too far. Anderson shrugged, sipping the beverage himself without skipping a beat.

“Have a seat, Tim,” Anderson said cheerfully, plunking himself down in a comfortable-looking recliner and directing Tim to the couch. “What can I help you with?”

“I’m part of a task force currently searching for two fugitives.” Tim pulled the mug shots out of his back pocket, tossing them onto the coffee table. “Sarah Geller and Vince Dawson.”

Anderson gave the photos a cursory glance, then shook his head. “Neither of them looks familiar, sorry.”

“They’re both suspects in a shooting that happened at Daniel Boone State Forest,” Tim said evenly, and there was a very slight narrowing of Chad’s eyes that assured Tim he was on the right track.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Anderson said, but his body language told Tim everything he needed to know; he’d gone perfectly still and just a little bit tense, his muscles ready to spring into action out of instinct and a little bit of fear.

Tim smiled. “Don’t fucking lie to me, _Chad_ , I’m really not in the mood.”

It happened very quickly.

First, Anderson threw the beer bottle at him and he had to duck out of the way, then Anderson was bolting for the front door. Tim’s first instinct was to draw his weapon, but he focused on the situation and what he needed to do in order to not shoot a State Police Officer in cold blood, which would undoubtedly have been a messy endeavor.

Tim dove, tackling Anderson around the waist and knocking him to the floor just a moment before he could have made it through the door. Anderson swung, catching Tim in the temple and sending a jolt of adrenaline through his body. Tim rolled, pushing Anderson onto his stomach and pulling him into a headlock while straddling the man’s torso in an effort to keep him still.

“Stop fucking fighting me,” Tim grunted through his clenched jaw. Anderson was wiry, but much taller than Tim, and his gangly legs were flailing wildly, bucking Tim’s body and thwarting his attempts to reach his handcuffs.

Finally, exhausted by the situation and out of other options, Tim pulled his service weapon and pressed the barrel hard into the back of Anderson’s head.

Anderson stopped struggling almost immediately and Tim could smell the piss as his bladder emptied itself. Tim didn’t waste any time, yanking out his cuffs and restraining the Sergeant before pulling him to his feet, keeping the pistol pressed against the man’s temple as he marched him into the peach-colored kitchen.

Tim slammed Anderson down into one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs at the dining table and took two steps back.

“Sergeant Anderson, let me tell you a little bit about myself.”

“Like I could give a shit—”

“I am a bona fide U.S. Army Ranger. Specifically, I was trained in the service as a sniper, and I was the best one they had on every tour I served,” Tim leaned hard on the _every_ for Anderson’s benefit, “Just some information I thought you should have before you decide to take your chances against me and my trusty side arm here.”

Tim watched as Anderson mulled this information, weighing his chances.

“Of course, if you’d like to take a leap of faith, I’m happy to give you a demonstration of my abilities.”

He could practically see the steam bursting from Anderson’s ears, which only improved his cartoonish appearance. It also didn’t help him look very intimidating, especially with the piss stain running down the front of his jeans.

“Who sent you?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is what I want to know: Who paid you to cover that shit up, who helped you do it, and what happened to the victims.”

Anderson sneered. “If I tell you, I’m as good as fucking dead anyway.”

“Well, you might as well do something nice before you kick it, then, huh? Maybe save yourself a circle or two when you get where you’re going,” Tim’s patience was waning and he could feel his headache returning, thanks at least in part to Anderson's punch. “Who paid you?”

“Some Russian guy. I didn’t ask his name and he didn't give it, so I just called him Boris. Don’t think he liked it much.”

The strain on Tim’s eyes was increasing, making it difficult for him to look at Anderson’s too-bright shirt.

“Who helped you?”

“This fed approached me about being his local contact a while ago. Said there was a cartel or some shit moving drugs and stuff through the area; that if I caught wind of anything, I should call him first. He’s the one who put me in touch with Boris.”

Why was everything in this house so goddamn colorful? Tim couldn’t find a neutral spot to focus on and it was making his vision swim a little.

“What’s the fed’s name?”

“Chris Romero.”

_Fuck_. Tim kept his expression neutral, but his brain was racing. Kathryn’s handler had been double-dipping. He must have also been the one who ratted her out to Solkov. Tim’s grip on his gun tensed minutely. The fucker had sent her to die without any indication to her or remorse about it whatsoever.

Tim was suddenly quite happy that Romero had already been murdered. At least Dawson had saved him the trouble of shooting the fucker himself.

“You got any proof?”

“Text messages. My phone’s in the living room if you want to grab it.”

Tim didn’t take the bait, and he could see that Anderson was disappointed. “Not as dumb as I look, Chad.”

Anderson shrugged. “Had to try.”

Tim’s blood pressure was pounding in his ears and his headache had now fully blossomed, renewed tension blooming behind his left eye with unrestrained ferocity.

“What happened to the victims from the truck?”

Tim wondered if Anderson had known it was a mistake to smirk when he did it. He wondered whether the Sergeant had time to register the fact that his laughter had been a gross miscalculation before the butt of Tim’s pistol whipped across his face and he landed on the floor.

How quickly had that laugh turned to an agonized shout as Tim knelt down and pummeled Chad’s stupid goddamn face with his fists?

#

When the knock came, Tim was sitting in the living room and he was only half-aware of his feet carrying him over to the front door to pull it open.

Kathryn took one look at him and frowned. “Jesus, Deputy, get back inside.”

He’d been sitting in the dark, and he flinched when Kathryn flipped on a light so she could see where she was going.

Tim watched dumbly as she walked into the kitchen and bent over Anderson’s bloody countenance to check his pulse. “Well, he’s not dead, at least.” She looked back up at Tim, who was standing with his hands shoved in his pockets. He felt like he might pass out. He needed to sit back down. “What the fuck happened?”

“He laughed,” Tim said. Kathryn’s face made it clear she didn’t understand. “I asked him where those kids went after they took them from the park and he fucking _laughed_.”

Tim didn’t like the way Kathryn was looking at him; like he was the last Tasmanian Tiger pacing around its too-small cage and she was afraid he might figure out how to open the door.

He watched Kathryn chew her bottom lip. But then instead of looking at her face, he focused on the simple black color of her jacket, letting his gaze soften, so she was nothing but a comforting blur.

Her brow furrowed as she tried to figure out how to get him out of this mess. Maybe he should have shot the guy, after all. At least the paperwork would have been more straightforward.

If his head didn’t hurt so much and his body didn’t feel so fucking cold, Tim thought maybe he’d feel a little appreciation—maybe even some genuine affection—for the woman who had just driven more than two hours to try and save his skin. As it was, every bit of his consciousness was going to keeping him upright, so there was no room for gratitude.

“We could leave him here,” she said, but Tim shook his head.

“One of his troopers gave me the address and knew I was coming. They’ll figure it out no problem.”

Kathryn took another moment to weigh her options. “You told him who you were?”

“Of course I did.” She rolled her eyes. “Listen, it’s not like I intended to beat the shit out of him, all right?”

Kathryn’s frown softened a fraction as she watched Tim run his hands through his hair, exasperated by himself and the situation. She nodded, agreeing with some silent plan in her head.

“Can you drive, Deputy?”

Tim nodded once, even though he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“I’m gonna pull my car around back. Take those cuffs off.”

Kathryn couldn’t have been gone more than a few minutes, but it felt like ages. Tim looked at Anderson’s mashed nose and mutilated lip and felt nothing. It was like he’d never left the sandbox; like looking at death was still second nature.

_He’s not dead,_ Tim reminded himself. _Not yet._

He helped Kathryn drag the unconscious man to her car and lie him down in the backseat.

“Do we need to take anything out of here?” she asked.

“Dick’s cellphone. It’s in the living room.”

Kathryn nodded and when she returned, she pressed the phone into Tim’s hands. Tim was glad she hadn’t opened it herself. What if there really were texts from Romero? What if Anderson had been telling the truth and someone Kathryn trusted had set her up and then sent her to slaughter?

“Follow me,” she said.

Tim nodded again.

#

When Kathryn had pulled over, telling him to stay in his car and wait for her, he hadn’t really known what she meant to do. But then he heard a single gunshot and a few moments later, Kathryn dove into his backseat and told him to drive, slowly, northwest toward the highway.

So he did.

He wanted to go back to his apartment, but Kathryn told him that wasn’t an option.

“I can’t be there. If anyone found out…”

“If anyone found out about anything I’ve been doing, I’d be dismissed and arrested.”

“Pull in there,” she said, ignoring his comment and instead pointing him toward a motel sign down a darkened side street. She was still lying down in the backseat, so he went in and got the room, and she didn’t come up herself until twenty minutes after he’d let himself in, even though he told her that was stupid.

Kathryn collapsed on the end of the bed, letting her head fall into her hands. Tim sat near her but made sure to leave a reasonable space between their bodies. He looked at his hands—they were shaking, and he could still see dried flecks of blood under his fingernails where he hadn't scrubbed hard enough.

He realized he hadn’t eaten anything since the breakfast sandwich he’d had more than twelve hours prior.

When he looked up, Kathryn was watching him with a serious gaze that made him feel like she was scolding him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lamely.

“What the fuck, Deputy?”

Tim didn’t have a good answer. He hadn’t lost his temper that completely in almost a decade. It was disgraceful, unnecessary, and it complicated an already double-fucked situation exponentially.

Rather than offer some feeble excuse, Tim remained silent. He could feel Kathryn’s eyes still on him and he shifted uncomfortably.

“Tim, look at me.”

When he did, he could see the concern clear and obvious on her face. He hated it. Hated the pity he saw written in the way her brows were knit together. He couldn’t hold her gaze for long, and so he looked back down at his still trembling hands and talked to them instead.

He didn’t even know why he said it. It shouldn’t have been important, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“You know my mother was born and died the same week, 45 years apart?”

He could feel Kathryn shift on the bed, bringing one knee up onto the mattress so she could turn her body toward him fully. He hazarded a glance at her and she nodded gravely.

Of course she fucking knew. It seemed like Kathryn knew everything about him, especially the shit he wished she didn’t.

“Is it like this every year?”

“Not always,” he said, which was true, though it had been before. “I’d say there’s a few other factors this time.” Tim attempted a wry grin, but he couldn’t quite muster the energy.

“You’re done, Deputy. I’ll tell Delia. I’ll make sure she doesn’t involve you further.”

Tim looked up at her and he could see she was being sincere. Her eyes were soft and kind.

He hated it. He wanted to slap that stupid expression right off her goddamn face. Wanted her to yell at him, slap him back; anything but this.

“Pity doesn’t look good on you, ma’am.”

“It isn’t pity, Deputy. I’m fucking _concerned_. You’re losing your shit. And when you lose your shit, you make mistakes. I don’t want you to end up dead.”

Tim’s head was swimming. He needed to eat something.

Instead, he leaned forward and grasped Kathryn by the back of the neck, pulling her into a desperate kiss. For a moment, he didn’t think she would return the gesture, but then she did, and it felt fucking _good_. He let himself get lost in her for the moment; pushed away every other stupid thing from his mind and just focused on the feel of her skin and the way she tasted.

But when he leaned forward to deepen the kiss, she pulled away and put an arresting hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Deputy.”

Tim knew she was right, but he still pressed his forehead against hers, unwilling to break contact just yet.

Kathryn ran her hand through his hair and down the back of his head before she pulled away. For the few seconds her fingers caressed his scalp, his headache dissipated just a fraction. But then it was back, renewed in her absence as she stood from the bed.

“What do you want on your pizza?”

“No fruit, no veg.”

Kathryn smirked. “You got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Reunited and it feels so good.._
> 
> Well, sort of.


	14. Dynamic Duo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I don't consider this chapter particularly explicit, it is probably _as explicit_ as this story will ever get, and I think it's certainly more so than similar scenes in _Solidago_. So this is just a warning that if that isn't your thing, you can skip from when it starts (I think it's pretty obvious) down to the last # without losing any real plot. :)

Tim was ravenous, and once again found himself grateful that Kathryn had ordered them each their own pie. He’d also retrieved the remaining bourbon from his car, and they both sipped from the bottle appreciatively. They’d eaten mostly in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Tim was trying to figure out how to tell her that Romero may have set her up. He looked at Anderson’s cellphone sitting on the bedside table and wondered how he could confirm that information without having to immediately share it with Kathryn.

He hoped if it was true, he could soften the blow somehow.

Now that Tim had eaten and his mind was clearer, he could see how ragged Kathryn looked; deep purple circles under her eyes made her face look bruised, and her fingernails had been torn to the quick. He wondered if that was a nervous habit he’d missed before. She was currently perched in a chair across the room, sitting cross-legged as she ate her pizza. She’d removed her jacket to reveal an oversized Aerosmith t-shirt with the arms cut off and dark jeans.

Tim thought she looked like a teenager dressed to attend her first concert with her dad.

“Something on your mind, Deputy?”

Tim looked up to find Kathryn watching him intently with a slice of pizza poised halfway to her mouth.

He decided for the moment to steer the conversation as far from Kathryn’s fashion sense and the case as he could. “Is your mother still alive?”

It still sent a thrill through him when he was able to catch Kathryn off guard, and he smiled when she nearly choked on the bite of pizza she’d just taken.

“I don’t know,” she managed to sputter after her coughing fit subsided.

“You never checked?”

Kathryn returned the half-eaten slice to the box it had come from, carefully folding the receptacle closed and setting it aside on the dresser. She looked for a napkin, but finding none, wiped her hands down her thighs to rid them of grease.

“I looked her up when I first got out, but that was years ago. She could have died in the interim and I wouldn’t know.”

“I don’t think I could stand that,” he confessed. “After I left for Basic, I kept waiting for a phone call that he’d killed her.” Tim didn’t elaborate, knowing Kathryn would understand who he meant. “When too many days went by between calls, I assumed the worst. Almost gave me an ulcer.” Tim leaned back in his chair, gnawing on the last piece of crust. He didn’t even bother to finish chewing before he continued, “But then the call I got was from her, telling me that my dad was dead, and I was relieved because I thought she would finally be happy. I thought she was safe.”

Kathryn hesitated, but only for a moment, “And then she got sick?”

Tim nodded. “I had to fight for Compassionate Action just so I could say goodbye. She hardly got a year without the bastard.”

Tim finished the last of his crust and tossed the empty box onto the floor, brushing his hands together and letting the crumbs fly carelessly. Kathryn flinched, her nose wrinkling distastefully, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“She would have been 56 today,” he said, finally.

After a moment, Kathryn unfurled her legs and stood, picking up the nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam from the floor and walking toward him. “Happy Birthday, Mrs. Gutterson,” she said and took a sip from the bottle before passing it to Tim. Their eyes locked and he held her gaze as he took a long, full swallow.

“Happy Birthday, mom.”

#

Soon after their toast, Kathryn excused herself to take what Tim assumed was a long, hot shower and he used the opportunity to investigate Anderson’s phone.

As he swiped through the contacts, he did indeed find a “C. Romero” listed, and he learned far more about Anderson than he wanted to by perusing the man's text messages. Tim had been right; there was an ex-wife. And it seemed like Chad liked to get drunk and send her pictures of his dick before whining about how much he missed her.

The woman either had enough self-respect to ignore him, or she’d changed her number without alerting him. Either way, it was both terribly sad and totally amusing; just the sort of schadenfreude pick-me-up Tim needed.

He just had to remember not to think of Anderson’s face caked in blood and missing teeth.

And then there were texts from Romero. They were brief and most of them didn’t seem to make sense without context. But since he knew the date of the Daniel Boone drop, he was able to scroll to that night.

Anderson had texted Romero minutes after Nettles’ report said Spencer’s call had come into the station.

“D.B. dropped. Pickup?”  
“Y - $25”  
“1:2 odds”  
“Ok”

And that was it.

“What the…”

“Anything good?”

Tim almost dropped the phone. Kathryn was standing behind him, wrapped in a motel towel, her hair still dripping.

“Fuck, Kathryn.”

“What is it?”

Tim desperately wanted to lie; to keep this information from her. But instead, he handed her the opened phone over his shoulder.

“Romero was the dirty fed. This is from the night we found the truck.”

He couldn’t watch her read the messages; didn’t want to see betrayal or hurt on her face, so he kept his eyes forward.

Because if Romero had been the one to sell her out to Solkov, that meant—

“This is a simple code,” she said softly, “Romero used the same with me. “$25 means he had a 25-minute ETA. The 1:2 odds Anderson sent back meant his own travel time was half that.”

Kathryn walked back to her chair and sat down, scrolling through the texts intently. She looked deflated. Defeated. Tim watched as the normally defiant glint in her gaze dampened and then died.

“Kathryn…”

“He was feeding him info for months. Some of these dates… Romero was deliberately undoing work I’d done.”

“Kathryn, if Romero was dirty, that means—”

Her head snapped up. “You’d best choose your next words very carefully, Deputy. There’s no reason for you to make any rash assumptions.”

“You know I’m right.”

“All due respect, _fuck_ you. You’re not exactly in fighting shape.”

“I could be brain dead and still see what’s going on.”

Kathryn crossed her legs again and balanced the phone on her knee. She rubbed her eyes and ran her fingers through her damp hair. She looked something beyond exhausted. Tim knew that look.

It was a look of resignation.

And he could hear her voice, assured and clear in his bedroom, _I’ve only been in the same room as Vincent Dawson once._

“Delia hired Dawson,” he said, and Kathryn’s head dropped into her hands, the curtain of her hair closing around her face like a shield against his voice.

“I know.”

Delia had sent them both on a wild goose chase in order to clean up the mess left in the wake of her hitman.

She’d toyed with them to cover her own ass.

#

Tim wished fervently for more bourbon. Kathryn had been sitting, motionless and bereaved for twenty minutes and the only salve he could think to offer her was the last dregs of his liquor, but even that seemed inadequate.

He decided to leave her to think and grieve alone.

He knew he shouldn’t drive, and he liked the idea of the cool night air on his face, anyway, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and he walked a mile and a half down the road they’d come in on until he found a gas station. He bought Kathryn the only bottle of scotch they had and hoped she didn’t mind sharing because he opened it on the walk back.

Tim entered the room to find Kathryn now sitting in the middle of the bed, wearing a plaid button down that was two sizes too big for her.

“Damn it, Kathryn, that’s my last clean shirt.” But when she looked up at him, he didn’t have the heart to scold her further. “Here,” he said instead, holding out the bottle. Once she took it, he tossed her a bag with a can of Pringles and a stale doughnut from the pastry case inside and was startled when she actually laughed.

“Quite the care package, Deputy. Do I look that bad?”

“Nothing a little whisky can’t fix,” he said, settling back into his chair, though he wasn’t half as sure as he sounded.

He watched as Kathryn unscrewed the top of the bottle and knocked back a hefty swig. She swallowed and then coughed loudly. “You couldn’t have sprung for the bottom shelf? Did they make this in the toilet?”

“Beats me,” he said, “guy at the register said it was the house special.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before taking a second, somewhat more conservative sip.

“Thank you,” she said as she closed the bottle, resting it on the bed next to her.

“So what now?” he asked.

“Now we figure out how the fuck to get you out of dodge.”

“What about you?”

She shrugged. “Pretty sure I’m dicked either way. Our goal now needs to be to extricate you from this mess.”

Tim knew she was probably right. Still, the idea of Kathryn taking the fall for Delia didn’t sit right with him in the least.

“She never told you?”

Kathryn shook her head, “She still had me looking for who hired Dawson.” She let out an utterly unamused bark of laughter, “I’ve been poring over financial statements from Russian oligarchs all fucking week.” Tim watched anguish ebb over her features, flowing into anger and then back again in a tortured wave.

She did exactly what he would have done in her position; she grabbed the bottle and took another long drink.

Tim rose from his seat, kicking off his shoes and settling on the bed next to Kathryn, who scooted over to make room for him.

“How did I miss it?” she asked, and Tim wasn’t sure what to say, so he just wrapped his arm around her shoulders and let her rest her head against him. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could offer her.

Because he was definitely a little drunk and also mourning, which meant he wasn’t in a position to provide a clearheaded view of anything.

“I asked Reed for three days, so I still have tomorrow before I have to be back. I think we should sleep on it and figure it out tomorrow.”

Kathryn turned her face and nuzzled gently against his neck. A jolt of electricity surged through him when her tongue pressed against his carotid.

Tim let out a low, pleased hum, “I thought you said that was a bad idea?”

“Who gives a shit?”

As it turned out, Tim Gutterson didn’t.

He turned and pulled Kathryn into a kiss filled with longing—longing for respite, for a different life, for a pleasant distraction. They fell into a mutual embrace of need; both desperate to feel something other than wrath or regret. When she caressed his face, he felt the tension melt from his shoulders and the haze of his loss eased, overtaken by the mechanics of physical gratification.

Their touches remained lazy and soft, neither of them interested in anything rough or harsh; this was meant to comfort. Tim’s mouth made its way to her neck, and then her shoulders, whispering over the skin his shirt didn’t cover. Kathryn laid back and he followed her, trailing kisses over her chest, between her breasts to her stomach and then her hip bones, where he let his teeth graze lightly over her smooth skin.

She writhed slowly, sensually beneath him, and when she tugged his hair, pulling him back to her mouth, he followed her easily, enjoying the languid dance of their tongues and the stringent taste of cheap scotch, even as he rolled the bottle off the bed and heard it land with a thud on the carpet.

Kathryn ran her hands under his shirt, pushing it up and out of the way. He tugged it over his head, enjoying the way her eyes drifted over his torso, and when she leaned up and kissed the scar on his left shoulder, he couldn’t suppress the embarrassing sound that escaped from his mouth before he tugged her lips back to his.

He felt her smiling as he kissed her, and he didn’t even care that her mirth came at his expense because he just wanted to feel something that didn’t hurt. He wanted to remember he could touch something without breaking it.

Kathryn rolled him onto his back, pressing his shoulders firmly down into the mattress as she draped her hips over his. Tim yanked the too-large plaid over her head, leaving her hair a tangled mess that framed her face like a lion’s mane.

The crooked smile she gave him didn’t make her look any less predatory. But when she leaned down, and all he could feel was her skin against his, he forgot to worry about becoming her prey.

Kathryn dragged slow, open-mouthed kisses down his body and Tim fumbled with his belt and the button of his jeans. He was grateful when she helped discard the troublesome garments because he didn’t have the patience or dexterity for them.

He was even more grateful when she settled between his legs and let her mouth distract him from every anxious thought and tainted memory he’d ever suffered. Tim tilted his head back and closed his eyes, allowing himself to simply enjoy what Kathryn was doing to his body without thought or regret.

She was gentle and deliberate—every movement and pressure variation intentionally soft. Tim’s headache was gone, replaced by a pleasant buzz in his skull as Kathryn moved her lips over him again and again.

He gasped when she did something unexpected with her tongue and his hips twitched involuntarily. “Fuck, Kathryn, come here,” he said, eyes still closed as he reached for her.

And then she was there, and he was kissing her, rolling her onto her back so he could return the favor. Tim let his strong, skillful fingers trace their way down her belly and over her thighs before settling inside her. She rolled her hips beautifully in response and Tim relished the view of her beneath him, eyes closed as she allowed herself to enjoy the same uncomplicated pleasure he had a few moments ago.

For all that she frustrated him, Tim had to admit this was worth the price of her brash wit, maybe even of her frustrating ability to dodge questions or her proclivity for lying. As he considered these things about Kathryn, however, Tim’s mind began to drift to less pleasant subjects until he heard her whisper, “Tim, look at me.”

And when he did, he found her face flushed, lips parted and wet, and her eyes sparkling with desire and need. Tim kissed her again, removing his fingers delicately before taking their place.

His brain was blinded by the sensation, and there was no room left for worry or second guessing. Kathryn wrapped her legs around his hips, matching the pace he set easily and breathing hoarsely against his ear. He wanted to feel all of her near him, so he held his body close to hers, supporting his weight just enough that she wouldn’t be uncomfortable.

The sweet friction, the smell of her skin, and the sound of her voice engulfed his senses until he reached the inexorable edge he’d been chasing and plummeted over.

At least he still had the presence of mind to pull out of her first, but he made a mess of her thigh when he did. Tim collapsed in a boneless heap against her, and as he rubbed his nose along her jaw, he could feel her smiling. Kathryn twined her fingers through his tousled hair, and Tim allowed himself a few minutes of satisfied oblivion before he got up and retrieved a towel from the bathroom, using it to clean her leg.

She laughed a little as she watched him. “Such a gentlemen.”

“As ever,” he said, “Shower?”

“Mmm,” was the only response.

#

Tim and Kathryn stood under the water as she massaged shampoo into his hair. Rather than bathe, Tim just held onto her, pressing their bodies together like he was trying to meld them both into one being. He kept his eyes closed, afraid of what he might find if he looked at her. For now, he wanted nothing more than to feel the comfort of another human being, and Kathryn was the only one near.

Tim knew it could have been anyone standing there with him; it was only proximity and chance that it was her.

“Feeling better?” she asked, and he made some noncommittal noise low in his throat. “I’m going to take that as a yes, even if it isn’t.”

As they crawled back into bed—this time to sleep—Tim found himself incredibly glad you didn’t need to trust someone to have sex with them. When he pulled her close, still intent on pressing skin-to-skin, he was grateful she let him tuck her head under his chin without a cutting, sarcastic quip.

Tim knew it could have been anyone, but he was thankful for now that it was her.


	15. Misfortune Cookies

When Tim woke in the morning, Kathryn was gone, along with his shirt and Anderson’s cellphone.

He was furious, and he left his third irate voicemail as he began the short drive back to Lexington. “I swear to god, Kathryn, if you don’t fucking call me back, I am going to track you down and shoot you my-goddamn-self.”

So much for working together. So much for trust.

Tim had decided almost immediately after waking that he would drive back to his apartment. Reed had given him three days and he was going to take three days, goddamn it. His actual cellphone had died god-knows-when, and he couldn’t find the charger he usually kept in his bag. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Kathryn had swiped that, too. Hell, he was apparently lucky he still had his fucking wallet.

As Tim drove too fast toward his apartment, he rolled the windows down to let the cool morning air wash over him. He would make coffee later. Right now, all he wanted was to be home.

And maybe to run Kathryn over if he happened to see her walking along the side of the highway.

Tim had noticed the bruises and cuts on his knuckles when he’d first grabbed the steering wheel. The damage had gone unnoticed the day before, though that was hardly surprising; Tim could have sprouted a second head yesterday and he’d have missed it. He flexed the sore appendages now, easing the stiffness, and counted himself lucky he hadn’t broken anything. His left hand looked particularly nasty, though, and he resolved to ice it before he had to return to the office in the morning.

When he walked into his apartment, it was still early, and Tim threw his go bag halfway across the living room in frustration before starting a pot of coffee and jumping in the shower. Despite his irritation, his body was thoroughly relaxed compared with days prior. He had to admit that, even if Kathryn was a giant pain in the ass, her presence had helped him overcome the intense stress of his dismal week.

He supposed maybe he should thank her for that. Right after he throttled her for taking off. Again.

He was getting really tired of her leaving him behind.

Coffee in hand, Tim sat on the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He checked the phone he’d plugged in before his shower and was relieved to see only a missed call from Rachel, but no voicemail, which meant it hadn’t been important.

Reed must have really let the Marshals know he was busy, and he found himself feeling incredibly grateful for this small mercy.

Tim had no way of getting in touch with Delia; she’d made sure of that. And if Kathryn wouldn’t return his calls, then there wasn’t much he could do about that, either.

Dawson. Dawson was the only thing he could focus on; the only lead he had that still made any fucking sense. He’d last been seen in Northern Virginia, but he was sure someone would have called him if they’d taken him into custody.

Tim kept a bulky old laptop in a dusty case under his bed. He didn’t use it much; preferring to leave work at work whenever possible, but he took it out today and signed into the VPN. When he searched for Dawson’s name, he saw the latest notes. “Fugitive evaded capture in Alexandria, VA. 2 agents injured. Last seen headed south on Route 1.”

Had he been going to meet with Delia? Kathryn said she often spent time in D.C. If they were still working together, that was bad news for everyone involved. Route 1 was no help; Dawson may as well have been on 95 and he could be headed anywhere. There was an APB out for the car he’d been in and Tim setup an alert so if it got pinged in the system, he’d receive a notification. It couldn’t hurt, he decided.

Tim tried to think through his options, weighing the information he had against what he assumed. He began scribbling every idea, no matter how stupid, down onto the back of a junk mail envelope:

_Romero dirty. Delia hired Dawson to kill him. Kathryn framed - why?  
Anderson knows where victims are?  
Other dirty cops?  
Delia turned on Kathryn ~~?~~.  
Kathryn going after Delia?  
Dawson and Delia still working together?  
Russians?_

_Options?  
Kill Dawson  
~~Kill Delia~~  
Arrest Delia?  
Still kill Dawson  
Kathryn killed Anderson? (gunshot)  
Anderson alive / goes to jail  
I go to jail  
Kathryn goes to jail  
Kathryn dies_

Tim decided maybe this stream of consciousness thing wasn’t for him, because that shit was fucking useless.

#

Tim ordered himself Chinese food for lunch; beef lo mein and crab rangoon. It was too greasy, too salty, and incredibly satisfying as he shoveled noodles into his mouth with the cheap takeout chopsticks as he scrolled through every line of every report ever compiled on Vincent Dawson that he had access to.

There had to be something here that had been missed; some indication of where he was going or why he’d been in Virginia, if not to meet with Delia.

The more he learned about the man, the less he liked Kathryn’s chances against him. Dawson was truly monstrous; had been linked to more murders than Tim would honestly have thought physically possible for a single human, and some of the crime scene photos…

Tim set his chopsticks down for a moment as he scrolled to a different part of the report before he resumed eating.

It seemed like Dawson had worked for every major crime organization currently active in the United States, and his version of loyalty seemed to be “pay me or I’ll kill you.” Solkov and his group had used him on several occasions.

Tim was looking forward to putting a bullet into the base of his skull at the first opportunity. He’d be doing the rest of humanity a favor.

And maybe if he could find him, Kathryn would at least answer a goddamn text message…

Tim nearly spilled his lo mein all over the keyboard.

Who the fuck was knocking on his door?

Tim was reaching for his gun when the knocker called out.

“You in there, Gutterson? It’s Reed.”

 _Shit_.

“Just a sec!”

Tim began clearing the table of his stupid scrawled notes. He closed the laptop, stuffing it under the couch. Then he looked at his hands, realizing there wasn’t anything he could do about the fact that it was clear he had beaten the shit out of something. Would Reed believe him if Tim said he was in a Fight Club?

Tim took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation to come, and pulled the door open with what he hoped was a genial smile plastered on his face.

“Howdy, Agent Reed, what can I do for you?”

Reed gave him a once over and Tim stuffed the hand that wasn’t holding the door open into his back pocket.

“Mind if I come in?”

_Yes._

“Not at all,” he said, stepping aside and letting the Agent into his apartment, scanning the room, hopeful that he hadn’t missed anything.

Reed was doing the same, and Tim told himself firmly that all he saw was the Kentucky Wildcats game on the television and the bottle of bourbon on the counter. Reed could judge Tim for that all he wanted, honestly.

It was after noon. Barely.

Reed wasted no time, removing a laptop from his bag and booting it up on Tim’s kitchen counter without even asking.

“Can I get you something? I’ve got bourbon whiskey and tap water.”

Reed looked at him over the top of his computer, and Tim couldn’t read his expression.

“No, thanks. I just wanted to show you something. I’d have been here sooner, but I had to convert it to a digital file from the VHS tape. You believe people still use those?”

Tim didn’t have any time to answer because whatever Reed wanted to show him must have been cued up already. He tapped the space bar and turned the laptop in one fluid motion, facing the screen toward Tim on the opposite side of the counter.

Tim was watching security camera footage from what looked like a doctor’s office or maybe a small hospital. The camera was placed behind a reception desk, pointed toward the automatic doors about twenty feet in front of it. He looked up at Reed, who was studying him from over the top of the laptop.

“Give it a second,” he said, and Tim crossed his arms, returning his attention to the screen. He schooled his face, sure that Reed was hoping to elicit a reaction with whatever this was.

And then he saw Kathryn drag Anderson’s limp body through the doors and walk straight up the reception desk. There was no sound, but he could see Kathryn speaking to the woman behind the desk.

Tim glanced up at Reed. “Sarah Geller?”

Reed smirked, nodded. It made Tim incredibly fucking uncomfortable.

“Do you know what she’s saying?” Reed asked.

Tim screwed his face up in what he hoped was a suitably confused expression. “Can’t say I’m much for lip reading.”

He watched as Kathryn pulled a gun from the waistband of her jeans and pointed it at someone beyond the camera’s view. She looked incredibly calm as she spoke with the receptionist again, and he watched her hand the woman behind the desk a piece of paper.

The receptionist spoke to Kathryn for a few moments, then pointed over her shoulder.

Kathryn looked straight into the camera, and then shot at it. The gunshot he’d heard, Tim assumed.

What the fuck had she been thinking? She should have just dumped his stupid ass on the pavement outside. Or shot him in the head behind the building, which Tim had half-hoped was what had happened.

Reed closed the laptop with a snap.

“The receptionist—a lovely and terrified girl named Martina—said Geller handed her a piece of paper with my name and number on it. She told Martina her name with instructions to call me and tell me she had beaten up a man named Chad Anderson because he was a dirty cop. Martina said Geller also told her that Anderson would say it was someone else who’d done it, but it was just because he—” Reed’s voice went up an octave as he made air quotes with his fingers, “‘has a small prick and doesn’t want to admit getting beat to shit by a woman.’”

Tim wasn’t sure whether Reed had meant to imitate Martina or Kathryn. He for sure didn’t sound like Kathryn, and he hoped for Martina’s sake it had been a poor imitation across the board.

Tim leaned against the counter, keeping his arms crossed and hoping his knuckles were sufficiently covered by his forearms.

“And?”

The glint that overtook Reed’s eyes made Tim feel like he’d just stuck his foot in a bear trap.

“Well, _and_ , Anderson was the cop who responded to the call from Daniel Boone, isn’t he? The incident, _incidentally_ , that you were meant to be investigating. In _fact_ , once I got the call, I drove out there and while Anderson was in no condition to speak, the trooper who answered the phone at his station was incredibly helpful. Told me that a Deputy U.S. Marshal named Timothy J. Gutterson had come in looking for Anderson, too. Told me he gave you Anderson’s home address. You know what I found at that address?”

Tim didn’t move.

“A bunch of blood in the kitchen and mugshots for Geller and Dawson.”

 _Shit_. He’d forgotten about those.

Reed let the implication hang in their air between them, half-challenge and half-threat.

“Yeah…” Tim trailed off lamely and he knew he was fucked. He didn’t have an excuse, so he went with a half-truth. “I met with Anderson, but he was tight-lipped. I left him the photos in case he saw either of the suspects.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Reed said, and Tim had never heard such a warning tone in the other man’s voice before. It was the first time in their brief interactions that Tim felt like he was speaking with a superior. The FBI Agent leaned against Tim’s counter, staring him down from across the small kitchen. “Sarah Geller is protecting you and I want to know why.”

#

Tim didn’t think he’d ever been struck totally mute before, but here he was, just standing in his kitchen, incapable of saying anything that made sense. Utterly at a loss for how to talk or wriggle his way out of this situation. Normally, he’d have some sardonic and measured response.

But there was nothing.

He wished Kathryn was here because she probably would have either gotten Reed on her side or duct taped him to a chair by now.

“Listen, Agent Reed—”

“Deputy Gutterson, if any of the words that are about to come out of your mouth are not the God-given honest truth, you’d best rethink your approach.”

Tim sighed, resigned to his fate. “Why don’t you tell me what you already know. It’ll save me the hassle of repeating myself.”

Tim had a small dining table with two chairs behind his couch that he never used, which was obvious because it was covered in clutter—bills and mailers and takeout menus, his gun cleaning kit. One of the chairs had become a de facto coat rack at some point and had a stack of five or six jackets laid across the back.

Reed picked up his laptop and made his way to the table, sweeping the pamphlets and envelopes from the tabletop onto the floor in a single swift motion without hesitation.

“Hey!”

But Reed ignored Tim’s protest, instead plunking himself down in the coat-less chair and beginning to pull folders out of his briefcase, opening them and laying them out on the table.

Tim, curiosity now piqued, walked over to the make-shift workstation unfolding in his dining room. He picked up the jackets from the other chair and looked for a good place to put them. But there wasn’t one; that was why they were on the chair in the first place. So he dumped them unceremoniously onto the floor next to the discarded mountain of junk mail.

Tim was surprised by Reed’s mocking and sarcastic, “hey,” as he pulled the chair around closer to the Agent as he tapped through something on his computer. The man became stranger by the minute.

Tim remained standing for the moment, scanning the documents laid across his table. It looked like a lot of detailed spreadsheets with dates and coordinates. There were also bank statements with Romero’s name at the top, so it seemed like Reed had maybe known he was dirty.

And then there was a picture of Kathryn with Delia, black and white and grainy, likely also pulled from security footage. It wasn’t anything particularly incriminating, just the two of them eating at a table outside a little café. Delia’s back was to the camera, almost certainly by design, Tim thought, so Kathryn sat in full view. She was wearing a dress, of all things, and there was a bright, beaming smile plastered on her face as she laughed at something Delia had said.

She looked exquisitely happy in a way Tim would hardly have thought possible. She looked beautiful, even all pixelated and greyscale.

“Take a seat, Deputy. I just need a minute.” Tim let his irritation flare for a moment at being told what to do in his own house, but then he complied, sinking into his chair. He wondered if Reed would object to drinking while working, because this looked like it was about to give him a whole new migraine.

But instead of bourbon, Tim leaned over the back of the couch and dug around in the paper takeout bag, pulling out a fortune cookie. He peeled away the crunchy plastic and snapped the cookie in half, shoving both parts in his mouth as he unfurled the paper inside.

_All things are difficult before they are easy._

Tim knew better than to think that any of this would ever be easy.

“Let’s start,” Reed said. Tim crumpled the fortune and tossed it over Reed’s head, where it landed somewhere in the pile of discarded papers from the table.


	16. Dominique Hughes

It turned out that Agent Matthew Reed was no slouch. He was certainly just as weird as Tim had thought, but he was also sharper and brighter than Tim had initially given him credit for.

Tim wondered if maybe he should have bought the man dinner because it felt like he’d somehow been roped into a very long, boring date.

Reed had studied psychology at Stanford before joining the Bureau, and had most often been used as an analyst before stepping into the role he now had. Tim had to admit, his profile of Sarah Geller ran relatively close to what he knew about Kathryn, and Reed had far less information to work from, so that in itself was impressive.

He also had to admit that Delia was extremely good at what she did, because Reed didn’t know anything about Sarah Geller before that was her name. He also didn’t know who she was working for, exactly. The single photo he had out showed nothing of Delia’s face, making it impossible to track her down from it, and there was no way to trace any of the payments Kathryn or Romero had received that were presumably from her.

Tim felt his brain go a little fuzzy during some of Reed’s in-depth explanations and analysis because of the intricate details he included every time he made a new connection. Reed knew a lot—a lot more than Tim thought he should, if he was being honest.

As Reed had taken him through each painstakingly double-checked fact, Tim found himself visualizing red yarn connecting all of the disparate pieces as if Reed were a crazed conspiracy theorist from a spy film. The fact that Tim’s brain was now wired in such a way made him want to take a several shots of tequila and a nap.

Reed knew Romero had been dirty; he could trace bank records back to Solkov’s organization, and Tim found it a little irksome that Reed had made Romero’s murder seem like such a fucking travesty, when he had apparently known the guy deserved what he’d gotten.

In addition to Kathryn, Reed had identified at least two other CIs within the larger FBI network he thought might be working with Delia, but they were located in Boston and Miami. The thought of Delia having her fingers in cities across the United States made Tim’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

It also meant tracking down her location may be more difficult than he had originally surmised if she could feasibly be anywhere on the East Coast; he’d assumed her home base was in Kentucky, or at least reasonably close.

The detail that was most shocking, however, was Reed’s last confession.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” Tim asked, because he was sure he’d misheard.

“I want to recruit them.”

Tim leaned back in his chair and reached for a phantom glass of bourbon. He’d meant to pour himself one, but had hesitated when he realized how intricate Reed’s documents were. He was now regretting his conservative approach.

“They’re _felons_ ,” Tim said, “You think Geller had Agent Romero killed.”

“Agent Romero was on the take from a Russian crime syndicate, and also from whoever Geller is working for. You killed Solkov and his men; you know the kind of people we’re talking about here. If there’s anything I hate more than an outright criminal, it’s a dirty cop.” Reed looked like he’d just run a 10k. There was a faint sheen of sweat gleaming across his forehead, and he’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows sometime during his longwinded explanation of his plan to find and recruit Sarah Geller and her associates.

John Cusack flashed through Tim’s mind again, but this time it was his role in Grosse Pointe Blank that seemed most fitting—neurotic and displaced.

“What does that have to do with wanting to recruit these people?”

“Altruism.”

“Come again?” Tim’s eyes slid over to his counter, where the bottle of untouched bourbon stared back at him mockingly, just out of reach.

“These people are products of circumstance and I think they might be swayed with the right incentives.” Reed leaned forward, digging out a file from the middle of the pile and tossing it into Tim’s surprised hands. “Take Geller,” he said.

Tim opened the file and found Kathryn’s mug shot, her informant profile, and her rap sheet. But he knew when he flipped through, he would also find the profile that Reed had compiled himself. According to his notes, Kathryn likely suffered from post-traumatic stress and the power she derived from hunting scumbags and liberating trafficking victims was her way of taking control of her life and atoning for her perceived sins.

It seemed relatively on point, even with all the bullshit psycho jargon, but he’d never gone to college, so what did he know?

“She is relentless. Even as a CI, she was booked multiple times for going after guys in the street. Romero fixed the charges for her, but she’s never done that to someone I wouldn’t also want to deck in the face.”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “I find it difficult to imagine you _decking_ anybody.”

Tim was once again taken aback by Reed’s response, as a sly grin spread across the man’s face. “You didn’t know me in college. I was quite the brawler before I got kicked out of my frat and got serious about my academics.”

Tim decided that he was done trying to judge people. It was clear his metrics needed to be recalibrated. He also decided he didn’t want to look at Kathryn’s face anymore, so he closed the file and dropped it back on the table.

“The point is,” Reed continued, “they are after the same things we are—scumbags off the streets and victims saved. They just go about it in a very different—”

“You mean illegal,” Tim mumbled.

“way.” Reed watched Tim carefully as he weighed his next words. “You worked with her. Do you really think it’s so ridiculous to imagine her working with us on the other side of things?”

Tim considered this. The thought of Kathryn with a badge hadn’t seemed a stretch before—he’d assumed she was a fed without any doubt when he’d met her. But now, the concept felt like a fantasy. Like Reed was offering up a wardrobe from his uncle’s house that could magically transform her from a renegade vigilante into a law-abiding citizen.

Eventually, he found that he couldn’t decide whether it was too farfetched an idea to work, so he shrugged impotently.

“Listen, Deputy Gutterson, you don’t have to agree with me. To be honest, most of my superiors don’t, but I am of the opinion that if we could turn these people to our side, they could help us do a lot of good.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to arrest them all?”

“Yes,” Reed said, matter-of-fact, “But sometimes the easiest thing isn’t the right one.”

Tim rolled his eyes at the platitude.

Reed laughed that strange squealy laugh again. When he was done, he asked Tim a new question. “Did you see we lost Dawson in Virginia?”

Tim leaned back, tucking his fingers under his nose as his palm cupped his chin. It was only when he saw Reed staring at his hands that he realized the cuts and bruises must be incredibly obvious.

He pulled his hand back down and tapped his fingers in a nervous rhythm against his thigh instead. While Reed hadn’t mentioned Anderson again, the unspoken knowledge lingered just beneath the surface of every word he said, and Tim had a feeling the information would be used against him eventually, likely at an incredibly inopportune time.

“I did,” he said, finally.

“They found some stuff in the room he’d rented.”

“Was it a written confession for Romero’s murder and a rendezvous point, because that would be peachy.”

“Not quite,” Reed said, and there was a seriousness in his tone that made Tim pay closer attention. “He had info on Sarah Geller’s known locations in and around Lexington, and photos of vehicles she’d used that we didn’t know about—recent ones. We think he’s getting ready to take her out.”

#

Kathryn still wouldn’t answer, and Tim was running out of ideas. Eight calls, fucking _eight_. Did she think he was trying to ask her to the prom? She must know what he had to say was important.

Maybe she’d ditched the phone, which meant Tim had no way of getting in touch with her, and the thought sat like ice in his belly.

It wasn’t a total shock that Dawson was after Kathryn—hell, they’d watched her house on the chance that was true—but to know he was getting closer, that he’d found the coffee shop she liked to frequent and the grocery store she used when she was home, meant he was now _too_ _close_ , and Kathryn needed to stop fucking around.

Reed had left some of his paperwork with Tim, asking him to look over the documents before he went into the office the next morning. Tim checked the time; it was nearly 4PM.

Before delving into the thick folio Reed had left for him, Tim decided to sort through the papers on his floor. He was sure there was probably a bill in there somewhere he’d forgotten about, and now was as good a time as any to let his mind drift as he went about the monotonous task.

Nearly all of it was junk; coupons and takeout menus for restaurants he would never eat from. There were political mailers for the mid-terms he’d missed and plenty of postcards asking him if he needed a new car or a painter or better health insurance.

And then there was a square envelope with his name and address handwritten on it, but no return, and he immediately recognized the handwriting.

It was Kathryn’s.

Tim tossed the papers in his hand to the side, negating the mediocre sorting job he’d been doing completely, and tore open the envelope after checking the postmark date. Whatever it was must have arrived only a week and a half or so after they’d parted ways. What could she have been sending him?

It was a newspaper clipping. A short blurb about Ralph Ibsen’s arrest. And scribbled in the margin at the top: “Thought you might like to know. – K.”

But that wasn’t what had Tim gripping the paper tightly in his hands, pulling it up close to his face to inspect it. He’d seen the article; had followed Ibsen’s case every day for weeks.

What had caught his attention was a photograph from the courtroom the day Ibsen was arraigned, and the caption underneath: _Dominique Hughes, Founder of_ After the Life _, a nonprofit helping human trafficking victims re-assimilate, attended the proceedings._

And in the photo, clear as could be, there was Delia.

#

Kathryn would have sent that news clipping long before she had any reason to think he would ever meet Delia, and it also explained the strange feeling he had when he’d met the older woman and felt like he’d seen her before. He’d probably looked at her face half a dozen times sprinkled through the articles he’d read about the Ibsen case, searching for any hint of Kathryn or who she worked for.

He felt stupid now for not having made the connection sooner.

But none of that mattered now. Tim was focused. Because Dominique Hughes was a real name, and she owned a real house about 45 minutes outside Louisville. There was no guarantee she’d be there, but it was the address she used on her taxes, so he figured there was a decent chance.

Maybe Kathryn really did mean something to her if she chose to keep her so close.

Before his car had gone hurtling down the winding back roads outside the city, Tim had formulated a plan. He didn’t know if it was a good one, and he honestly didn’t care either way. Tonight, he was going to make some headway.

He was going to get some goddamn answers if it killed him.

Tim ascended the stairs outside of Delia’s house—which was quite beautiful and far too large—wearing a plain black baseball cap, a windbreaker from an old Halloween costume that he’d dug out of the back of his closet, and a large pepperoni pizza.

When he knocked, Tim turned away from the door just enough to obscure his face and allow him to pull his gun from his holster with his left hand without her noticing.

He heard the faint sounds of someone walking up to the opposite side of the door. “Who is it?”

“Pizza House,” he said. “Got a delivery.”

“I didn’t order anything.”

“Listen, lady, this is my third house. Everyone says they didn’t order it, but someone did. Will you just take the pizza? It’s paid for and my shift ended an hour ago.”

He heard the lock click and the door swing open just an inch.

Tim turned and shoved the pizza into her arms, knocking her back a step, and he used the brief moment of distraction to shove past the door and kick it closed behind him as he raised his weapon.

Of course, Delia was only fooled for a second, but that was all Tim needed to level his gun at her face and put his finger on the trigger, so she knew he meant it.

“’Evening, Delia. You have time for a chat?”

“What the hell, Corporal?”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he nudged the gun toward her face, “Kitchen. Walk.”

And she did, but Tim made sure to stay less than a step behind her, pressing the end of his gun into her back as he did so. He was taking no chances.

The kitchen was even more beautiful than the outside of the house—white marble and gold pendant lights with top of the line appliances Tim had only ever seen in romantic comedies where one of the leads was a chef.

It was all ostentatious in the worst way he could imagine. And, he noted with some amount of unwarranted satisfaction, the exact opposite of Kathryn’s own house, which was designed to be used, not photographed.

“Sit,” he said, but when she chose a particular chair, he cut her off and ran his hands over the chair and the area around it before pulling a small .22 caliber handgun from a holster attached to the table. He glanced at her. “Nice try.”

Tim pulled the chair out into the middle of the room, so none of the other surfaces would be within her reach, and indicated for her to sit down.

“Now, you’ve read all my records and reports. You know I don’t miss when I pull a trigger.” Tim paused a moment, letting Delia settle into the chair now facing him. “If you so much as blink in a way I don’t like, I promise you, I _won’t._ ”

“Oh, I have no intention of blinking, Mr. Gutterson.”

Tim smiled at the threat in her words, expecting them—wanting them. “Good.”

Tim holstered his weapon, but he let his right hand rest lightly against the grip, just in case he needed to pull it quickly. He honestly hoped she’d give him a reason to. He might not be as quick on the draw as Raylan, but at this distance, he knew he’d do just fine.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“I am very, very good at my job and, as it turns out, everyone else’s,” he said. She didn’t need to know it had been half-luck. He wanted her on edge.

He wanted her scared.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know why you hired an assassin to kill an FBI Agent and let your beloved _Kat_ take the fall for it.” Tim was satisfied by Delia’s slight flinch when he used her pet name for Kathryn, and he took pleasure in watching her squirm minutely under his intense gaze. “And I want to know how the fuck you intend to rectify the situation before she ends up dead, too.”

Tim felt vindicated as he watched Delia’s jaw tighten. He was tired of dragging ass behind everyone else. Tonight, he was taking back the reins.


	17. Some Web

Tim didn’t often think about the way he spoke. His accent was just a byproduct of his upbringing, nothing more. It may have earned him some ribbing during his Basic Training, but otherwise, it was just the way the information in his brain made it out of his mouth.

When he spoke with Delia, though, he noticed himself leaning hard into his _r_ s and keeping his jaw screwed tight as he chewed on each syllable. There was something about her that made him want to sound mean, and so he had started talking like his father without even realizing it.

Tim knew it probably wasn’t all that effective. He was sure Delia had heard rougher voices from crueler men, but it did make him feel more in control of the situation than he could ever hope to actually be.

He hadn’t even restrained her, which he was now realizing had likely been a mistake.

He decided he’d have to take his chances because he wasn’t about to go looking for a rope now.

“I didn’t mean for Kat to take the blame,” Delia said.

“Explain.”

Delia took a deep breath and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Tim half-wondered if she was waiting for someone from upstairs to come blow his brains out and liberate her, but he didn’t hear anything, and he figured if there was anyone else in the house, they would have come down during the initial scuffle.

“I did hire Dawson, but he was supposed to make Romero’s death look like a hit by the Russians he was working with.”

Tim couldn’t help the sneer that crept into his next words. “How strange that a scumbag assassin didn’t follow your instructions.” When Delia said nothing, Tim continued, “Why was he in Alexandria?”

“I was supposed to give him the rest of his money, which I did. And he told me something else.”

“What?”

“He realized he could get information from Romero that might be lucrative. He tortured him before he killed him.”

“What kind of information?”

“The kind that puts Kat in very real danger.”

Tim wasn’t surprised, but it was still a gut punch. “And what is he doing with that information?”

Delia leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap carefully, weighing her next words.

“When we met in Alexandria, he offered me the chance to buy him out of a contract.” Tim could see exactly where this was headed, but he felt like a kid standing on the tracks—paralyzed by the inevitable train barreling toward him. “The Russians are paying him an exorbitant amount of money to kill Kat and anyone else involved in the fuck up in Daniel Boone. I don’t have the funds necessary to bail her out of it.”

“Jesus,” he said, “so what now?”

“I sent Kat out of Kentucky, so it should buy us some time.”

Tim didn’t want to say the next sentence aloud, but he knew he had to. “She isn’t in Tennessee anymore.”

Delia’s eyes snapped up to him. She looked like a serpent, perceptive and deadly, and at that moment, he knew with certainty that she would kill him if she could. “What the fuck did you do?”

Tim winced, despite himself, but he was done playing this game, and he wasn’t about to apologize for Kathryn’s decisions, even if he had motivated them. She could have stayed in Tennessee—she could have left him to deal with Anderson himself. It wasn’t his fault she felt some misplaced desire to help him.

At least, he was going to keep telling himself that until he believed it.

“I’m not the one who put her on Dawson’s radar in the first place,” he said, finally, and Delia’s shoulders settled a little as she uncoiled.

“Then what do you suggest we do, Mr. Gutterson?”

Tim wasn’t entirely sure. He didn’t even know exactly why he’d come here. Maybe just to show Delia he knew who she was. He wanted her to know he could upend her life as easily as she could upend his.

But the information she had about Dawson wasn’t helpful, honestly. It didn’t matter why he was after Kathryn, only that he was, and Tim had known that before he’d spent $20 on a pizza that was now grease staining Delia’s entryway carpet.

The thought of ruining the cream-colored runner did bring Tim some amount of satisfaction, though.

“We need to get her someplace where Dawson can’t access her,” he said.

“What are you suggesting?” Tim looked at Delia, waiting for her to pick up his line of thinking. He saw the exact moment she figured it out. “No,” she said, and her voice felt like a hammer—definitive and unyielding.

It was a good thing Tim wasn’t a nail.

“I’m not sure we have any other choice. Unless you’re willing to turn yourself in.”

He watched Delia shift again, and he knew he had her. Because while it was obvious Delia was willing to kill for Kathryn—or at least, to pay people to kill for her—he was also pretty sure she wasn’t willing to go to prison for anyone.

“She’d never agree to it.”

“She doesn’t have to.”

Delia snarled, “A little cruel, don’t you think, Corp—” she stopped short as Tim narrowed his eyes and minutely tightened his grip on the gun still in his holster, “cutting her out of a decision that’s going to ruin her life?”

“Save it, you mean.”

Delia snorted, clearly not convinced that was the case.

Tim didn’t like the idea either, but how else was he supposed to keep her safe? Kathryn wouldn’t sit still for more than ten minutes, and Dawson was not the kind of person to just give up because she went underground for a few days.

Without intervention, Dawson would find Kathryn, and he would kill her. It was that simple.

“I won’t let you,” Delia said, and Tim couldn’t help the hateful smirk that spread over his face as he looked at her.

“I wasn’t fucking asking your permission. Consider this a friendly heads up you’re due to clean house. Agent Reed? He knows about Melendez and Fairway,” he enjoyed the surprise on Delia’s face when he mentioned her two other operatives more than he knew he should, “so you’d better get them off the grid, and soon. Once he has Kathryn, Reed’s bound to broaden his scope, and if he’s half as smart as I think he is, it’s only a matter of time before he finds you, too.” He waited a moment before he added, “Or before I tell him who you are.”

Delia’s posture straightened and Tim kicked off the wall he’d been leaning against. He hoped his boot left a scuff mark on the immaculate white paint.

“Why did you come here?” she asked.

Tim leaned as close to Delia as he thought was safe. “I wanted to see the look on your face when you realized I hold all the cards.”

He turned and marched swiftly down the hallway, grinding a slice of the decimated pizza into the carpet on his way out.

He was glad he’d sounded more assured of his answer than he felt.

#

Tim didn’t know whether he’d made the decision consciously, but now that he realized where he was driving, it made a lot of sense, and he wasn’t sure why it had taken him so long to realize it was the right move.

Once he got off the highway, most of the roads were dark and empty. He took his time, driving slowly and listening to the radio even after it became cluttered by static; letting his mind drift over the conversations he’d had with Reed and Delia until they coalesced into something mostly firm and semi-tangible.

Her house was nearly on his way home, anyway, so it wasn’t so strange that he would stop there, he decided. He knew from his discussion with Reed earlier in the evening that no one was watching it anymore; the task force had determined that Dawson was a better lead, and they didn’t have the resources to sit on every place Kathryn might one day return to, even as they continued looking for her.

By the time he parked his car, it was late, and Tim sat for a few minutes in the driver’s seat with his hand on the keys, debating whether he should just turn the engine back on and go home.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he pulled them from the ignition and stuffed them in his pocket as he walked across the street.

The flowers in the garden beds out front were nearly all dead—brown from neglect and too much sun. As he reached to pull the screen door open, he jerked his hand back in surprise.

There, with a giant net spreading from the metal banister to the bluebells beside it, was the largest orb weaver he’d ever seen. The spider sat stoically in the center of her impressive web, swollen yellow and black abdomen stark against the white door, with dark purple legs poised to snatch any prey that landed in its exquisite trap.

Tim considered squashing the ugly thing. It would have been easy to slam his boot into it and mash it against the door, destroying its hard work as well as its existence in one fell swoop.

But he found himself wondering whether Kathryn would do that. He thought about her attachment to beautiful, deadly things and decided she’d probably leave it alone or even move it someplace out of the way where it could survive unhindered, snatching flies and moths out of the air in peace.

Tim certainly wasn’t touching the fucking creepy crawler, though, so it would have to stay blocking the door for now.

Breaking in the back wasn’t all that difficult, anyway; the plywood the Marshals Service had put in place over the busted glass panel was held up with a half dozen small nails at best. Kathryn was lucky she lived in a relatively decent area, or he imagined half her shit would have been stolen by now.

He resolved to secure the plywood better when he left, though it was a half-hearted promise made to no one in particular.

It’s not like she was here; not like she would ever know if he didn’t follow through.

As Tim made his way toward the basement door, he was struck by something he hadn’t noticed when he’d been in her house previously, and he took a lap around the main floor to confirm his suspicions, opening drawers and cupboards as he did so.

Despite—or perhaps because of—the careful decorating, he had never noticed that Kathryn didn’t have any photographs in her home of herself or anyone else.

She had artwork, of course; paintings and pictures of landscapes or whatever. But there wasn’t a single candid with friends or Delia or anyone. Not even a snapshot of Kathryn in front of a waterfall or holding a cocktail at a pretentious bar. Nothing. Now that he was actually looking at it, the house felt like it was staged—there was nothing personal or identifying in it.

Even Tim, who had never thought about decorating anything, had a picture of him with his mom from his fifth birthday party on the mantel in his living room, and a photo of his grandparents next to it. Hell, he had a strip from the stupid photobooth at his buddy Ken’s wedding last year stuck to the front of his fridge, even though he thought it was dumb and everyone in the picture—Tim included—looked absurdly drunk.

It was possible, he told himself, she’d simply hidden them, but he’d scoured the house when he watched it, looking for something just like that to give him an inkling as to where she might have gone. Even as he tried to reassure himself with the thought, he knew he wouldn’t have missed a photo album, even if she’d buried it somewhere.

And there was nothing in her basement room, either, he realized when he finally made his way downstairs and used the key he’d kept in his wallet to open the secret door. He checked every folder and drawer, but the contents were all related to her work.

Even here, in the most private space in her home, there was no indication that Kathryn had personal ties to another human being. The most intimate item she’d kept here was now tucked in his bedside table—a newspaper clipping with her real name.

Tim ran his hands over his face. He was tired; felt like a canvas stretched too tightly over a frame, and the full realization of Kathryn’s isolation made him incredibly fucking sad. It also made him feel guilty.

Kathryn was a woman balanced on razor wire. Her hold on her identity and purpose, he had come to realize, was tenuous at best. Delia’s betrayal—the omission of truth regarding Romero’s death—had likely been a significant blow to Kathryn’s sense of self. Tim knew that because he had taken advantage of it in his need to feel something other than his own cavernous loss and brooding incompetence.

Her weakness at losing Delia had been the opening he needed to get laid and he was ashamed, now, that he’d taken the chance without a thought about how it might impact her.

What he knew about Kathryn’s life made him angry; the way she’d been treated by everyone, Delia included, filled him with a sense of urgent and devastating fury. And now Matthew Reed was looking at her like just another tool he could use, too.

It seemed everyone but Tim was perfectly content putting Kathryn’s life in danger if it meant achieving their personal objectives. No wonder she was such an ill-tempered and unpredictable pain in the ass. It almost made too much sense she had been willing to die in a field for a cause she believed in when he first met her. She had been groomed her entire life to believe her existence was only worth what she could provide to other people.

How could she have expected a complete stranger to value her life more than anyone else ever had?

Tim had felt the same during his last deployment—like a cello being tuned until it snapped in half. It was the reason he’d decided to join the Marshals service instead of completing another tour.

Tim realized, with deep dissatisfaction, that he was the closest thing to a partner or a true friend Kathryn had likely ever had. No one else had ever bothered sticking by her side long enough for her to truly trust them, except maybe Delia, and now that bond had been blown to shit, too.

The sudden understanding made what he knew he had to do next all the more difficult.

Tim reached for the landline and dialed Kathryn’s cell number, hoping ardently that she hadn’t ditched the phone, yet.

As it rang a third and fourth time, the raw feeling in his chest grew.

What if she hadn’t ditched it? What if Dawson had already found—

“Why are you in my house?” she asked, and Tim couldn’t help the relief that flooded his body at the sound of her voice, even if it was gruff and accusatory.

“You weren’t answering my calls,” he said.

“I was busy.”

“Stealing people’s clothes and cellphone chargers?”

There was a slight pause, and then she said, “I didn’t take your charger.” But her voice was too soft, and he could hear her shifting—whatever she was wearing sounded heavy, and the cloth made too much noise as she moved.

“Your flowers are dead.”

The thought of her wearing his clothes no longer elicited a lustful response. Instead, it made his chest feel empty.

“You haven’t been watering them for me? Some pal you are.”

He remembered thinking she’d worn his t-shirt to fuck with him, but then her unwitting confession as he’d interrogated her had changed his perspective.

_I knew someone was watching the house. I just didn't expect it to be you._

“I don’t have time to be your gardener.” Kathryn chuckled at his lame joke, and the low sound sent a pleasant buzz through his body.

She hadn’t been trying to mess with him. She’d been trying to feel close to something.

She’d been trying to feel close to _him_ , the same way he’d felt yesterday when he’d held her tightly against his body after she’d saved his ass.

“I need you to meet me,” Tim said, as he tried without success to push the thought from his mind.

“Why?”

Tim slumped into Kathryn’s chair and let his head fall forward into his free hand. He was careful not to let the defeated feeling in his body seep into his voice. “I have information on Dawson, but I need your help tracking him.”

“Where?”

“Coffee Times.”

“7 AM?”

“Fine, but don’t get yourself killed before then, okay?” His plea, though he kept his tone light, was sincere.

She chuckled again, “I’ll do my best, Deputy. And you, too.”

And then she hung up and Tim was left sitting in her basement, wondering if she would ever forgive him.

Wondering whether he would deserve it, even if she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a great weekend, everybody. I should be back with two new chapters next week! Please take care of yourselves & your loved ones. <3


	18. Sting, Stang, Stung

Tim hated coffee shops. They always felt so pretentious. Who needed all that extra shit? Just give him a coffee and he’d either drink it as-is or make it palatable with sugar and milk.

This over-the-top, needlessly complicated, “what degree of foaminess would you like your milk frothed to?” bullshit could go bag it, as far as he was concerned.

And now Tim sat in the sprawling open concept hipster café of his nightmares, waiting for Kathryn to show up. She was late, and it was making him twitchy and nervous.

He only hoped Reed had listened to his instructions and wouldn’t jump the gun.

“Coffee, black, two sugars.”

“I didn’t order anyth—”

He wouldn’t have recognized her if she hadn’t sat down across from him. Kathryn’s hair had been dyed black—chopped bluntly to her chin with short bangs. She was wearing a black turtleneck and matching leggings, covering all of her tattoos, and she’d gotten her hands on a pair of oversized glasses. The effect was simple, but made her look very much unlike herself.

He hated it; the haircut made her cheekbones too angular and the glasses made her mouth look too small. And she looked too well-suited to her hip surroundings.

His distaste must have been obvious because she laughed a little as she settled into her chair, “Don’t worry, Deputy. It’s not permanent.”

Tim took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. “Just doesn’t fit you.”

“Wouldn’t have been necessary if you hadn’t picked such a public place to meet.” He watched as she leaned a yoga mat and a brown shopping bag against the wall next to her.

“Nice to know you had time to hit the gym,” he said, and his irritation was genuine because he hadn’t slept at all the night prior, and he felt wrecked. The thought of Kathryn stretching leisurely in a yoga studio somewhere made him want to chuck the coffee cup in front of him at her face.

“Figured I should stay limber if we’re tracking Dawson.”

Tim watched Kathryn take a long sip of her drink, and he wondered idly whether she’d ordered something frothy and ridiculous.

Tim’s muscles tensed as he noticed Art and Rachel approaching the windows. Because Kathryn had shown up late, he’d lost the time he wanted to have with her beforehand.

Tim slid his coffee to the side and leaned forward.

“I have to arrest you.”

Kathryn smirked at first, but then she realized he wasn’t joking. He saw her eyes dart over his shoulder, and he knew she could see Reed and Nelson coming in through the back with the rest of the FBI Agents from the task force. Her eyes shot back to him and there was fury and betrayal writ large and clear on her face.

Tim’s stomach dropped when he saw her body tense, ready to fight back.

“Please don’t make me shoot you,” he said, and he kept his eyes locked with hers in case she didn’t listen.

He was relieved when she raised her arms in surrender.

Tim stood and walked behind her, pulling her hands back to cuff them just as she drove her elbow into his stomach with unrestrained force. The blow was enough to trigger an instinctual response, and he slammed her upper body down onto the table harder than he wanted to, with his forearm pressed hard against her shoulders to keep her from getting back up.

He leaned close to her ear as he did so and he hissed, “What the hell, Kathryn?” low and quiet as the other Marshals approached, so they couldn’t hear.

“I never should have trusted you,” she said, and Tim knew she was right as he secured the handcuffs around her wrists.

“U.S. Marshals Service!” Art’s voice boomed across the café, and the other patrons scrambled to stay out of the way of the federal agents pouring in from the front and back entrances.

“What did she say to you?” Reed asked when he reached the table. Tim didn’t like the look on Reed’s face, so he averted his eyes, choosing to focus on Kathryn’s hands instead, pulled tightly together by the same handcuffs he’d used to restrain Chad Anderson.

“She called me a jackass,” Tim said as he heaved her up.

And as he walked her toward the van waiting outside to take her to the courthouse, he knew even if she hadn’t used those words, it was exactly what she’d meant.

#

Tim was leaning against the front of his desk because it gave him a clear view of Kathryn in the conference room, while still allowing him to be part of the conversation in the bullpen, though he was mostly content to let his fellow Marshals talk amongst themselves.

He could also just see past the blinds into Art’s office where the Chief Deputy, Agent Reed, and David Vasquez were discussing how best to proceed. Tim spared a brief glance for the armed man standing in front of the conference room door, and he scoffed at how useless he would likely be if Kathryn truly decided she wanted to leave.

Nelson and Rachel were going through Kathryn’s belongings. They’d taken her shopping bag and were emptying it, now. The contents made Tim want to scream.

She had her holster in the bag, and he wondered if its location had been the only thing that kept her from pulling on him. Whatever the reason, he was grateful. He didn’t want to think about how the rest of his day would have gone if he’d been forced to kill her. Or watch someone else do it for him.

Anderson’s cellphone was also in the bag, though they didn’t know who it belonged to, yet, as well as the one she’d been using. He was suddenly glad he had taken Delia’s advice and gotten a Tracfone, as he watched the IT guy Chris take both of the cells back to his office.

But then there was the part that made him want to tug his hair out right then and there. She’d packed his shirt and a bottle of bourbon—good bourbon. Why the fuck had she been bringing him gifts? Was she trying to make him feel like a total asshole?

Raylan had been watching Nelson and Rachel with detached interest as he rested his boots on is own desk, but his curiosity was obviously piqued when the latter had removed the flannel shirt from the bag.

“Say, Tim, don’t you have a shirt just like that?”

Tim didn’t even bother looking to his left to dignify Raylan’s shit-eating grin, “This is Kentucky, Raylan, everybody’s got a red flannel.”

“I don’t.”

“Rachel, Joe got a red plaid?”

“Yep.”

“Rachel,” she looked up at him, “ _You_ got a red plaid?”

She smirked at him before she glanced at Raylan. “Yep.”

Tim couldn’t help it, he smiled. Thank god for Rachel.

“See?” he said, still leaned against his desk with his arms crossed, hoping he looked a lot more nonchalant than he felt.

Tim could see Raylan watching him from his periphery as the older man chewed halfheartedly on the cap of a pen. He was afraid Raylan might not drop the conversation, but then Nelson unwittingly saved his ass.

“I’ve got one, too,” Nelson said, and Tim had never been so grateful for his oblivious coworker’s timing.

#

When Reed, Art, and Vasquez filed from Art’s office into the conference room, Tim had been quite content to remain at his desk, but then his new FBI friend had motioned for him to join them, and Tim could feel Raylan’s eyes on his back as he marched dutifully into the last interrogation he ever wanted to be part of.

Art sat at the far end of the table, while Vasquez and Reed took seats across from Kathryn. Tim resumed the same relaxed posture he’d had at his desk, but with his back pressed against the glass door.

He felt like it couldn’t hurt being closest to the exit because the woman he was looking at wasn’t Kathryn, and he wasn’t sure how it ever could have been.

Sarah Geller was seated at the long conference table, stoic and still. Where Tim had read despair and desire so clearly on Kathryn’s face only two days ago, this woman’s eyes were like two brick walls sealing off her thoughts from the world. All that remained was a cold, unreadable stare. Her posture was impeccably straight, and her hands were clasped demurely on the table in front of her, though they were still cuffed. Tim could see the first bit of purple blooming across her cheek from where he’d slammed her into the table, and he fought hard not to feel remorseful about it.

But what took him by surprise most was when she finally spoke.

“Ms. Geller,” Vasquez said, “I’m glad you could finally join us.”

“You must be the U.S.A. dick assigned to my case.”

Gone was the soft twang Tim had come to expect from her. Instead, her intonation was a perfect imitation of Vasquez’s own Brooklyn-lite, Jersey accent.

Vasquez smiled, but Tim could see there was no humor in it. “I am, yes, the _dick_ assigned to your case. Given that’s the situation, is there anything you’d like to say?”

The smirk that split Kathryn’s face made Tim’s blood curdle.

“Ms. Geller, my name is Matthew Reed. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI,” when she made no move to respond, Reed cleared his throat and continued, “What can you tell us about Vincent Dawson?”

Kathryn turned her attention to Reed, and when she opened her mouth this time, she sounded like a West Coast girl on vacation, “I don’t know much about him except he’s also a dick.” Tim had never realized how much of a Valley Girl accent Reed had, but now it seemed clear. She’d read his articulation perfectly.

Tim looked at Art, who was observing the exchange with increasing interest. The change in accent had caught everyone’s attention, and it looked like no one knew what to do with it.

“Do you know Deputy Gutterson?” Reed asked, gesturing toward Tim standing awkwardly against the door.

Kathryn didn’t even waste a glance in his direction.

“I worked with Deputy U.S. Marshal Timothy Gutterson as a CI under Agent Christopher Romero.”

“And what was your impression of him?”

“He’s good with a rifle, but shit at following orders.”

Art leaned forward. “Ms. Geller, do you remember me?”

“Chief Deputy Mullen,” she said, the drawl in her voice long and obvious, “Pleasure to see you again.” But she wasn’t looking at Art, her eyes hadn’t left Reed since he’d introduced himself.

She was clearly only interested in the people in the conference room who had control over what happened to her. Tim no longer mattered, and Art never had.

“May I ask where you’re from, Ms. Geller?” Vasquez asked.

“Where do you want me to be from?” she replied, back to New York and smiling flirtatiously.

Tim felt like his brain was swimming in too much spinal fluid. He’d heard her switch her voice more subtly before, but this was giving him whiplash. What was she trying to accomplish?

Vasquez leaned forward, and Tim could see from his expression that he was not at all amused by her game. “Ms. Geller, you are under arrest for the murder of a Federal Agent. Are you sure you want to be so coy?”

“Also the assault of a State Police Sergeant,” Reed said.

Tim had to focus so as not to flinch or otherwise give himself away when Reed referenced Anderson.

“They’re both piece of shit dirty cops. Cry me a fuckin’ river,” she said.

“Well,” Vasquez said, clearly irritated, “When Anderson dies, I’ll get you on two murders, at least.”

Tim didn’t think any part of Kathryn’s body had moved except her eyes as they traveled back and forth between the lawyer and the FBI Agent before her. The entire carriage of her body felt unnatural; he was used to her tucking her legs under herself or tapping her fingers against her chin or a cup.

She always had too much energy, and it had always been so palpable he could almost see it crackling around her.

The woman in front of him was like a wax statue of the Kathryn he’d come to know—an excellent likeness, but without any of the life that made her _her_.

“What do you know about Daniel Boone National Forest?” Reed asked.

At least this time Tim was prepared for the code switch, “Daniel Boone National Forest encompasses more than 708,000 acres spread over 21 counties and boasts some of the most difficult terrain west of the Appalachians. It was officially established by Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1937, though it had a different name then. It wasn’t named for the well-known frontiersman until the mid-60s.”

The room lapsed into an irate silence. Tim could see the two men across from Kathryn were tense where they had not been before, but Kathryn’s body language remained aloof and detached. The air might as well have been sizzling because it felt like there was a thunderstorm brewing in the small room.

When Tim looked over at Art, he found the older man staring straight back at him, as if he was trying to understand the situation better by watching Tim’s reactions.

It made Tim vastly uncomfortable, and he hoped fervently he hadn’t given anything away.

#

Tim sat at his desk, staring at the wooden door across the office.

Kathryn had been dumped in the locker room while the task force re-took the conference table, now focused solely on finding Vincent Dawson and bringing him in as well.

The working theory was that if they had both of them in custody, at least one of them could be coerced into flipping on the other.

From Tim’s perspective, it didn’t look as though they were getting anywhere.

Tim stood from his desk and wandered over to the small kitchenette to pour himself a cup of coffee. He’d been chugging the shit all day to keep his eyes open following his all-nighter, and he was fairly certain all the caffeine necessitated by this case was going to give him a cardiac arrhythmia.

They’d sent some FBI Agent in with Kathryn to stand guard over her or whatever, and Tim was trying to figure out how to get a moment alone with her when the door opened and the guy stuck his head out.

When his eyes landed on Tim, the Agent waved him over. “I gotta take a piss, can you watch her a minute?”

Tim nodded, setting his coffee down on the counter as he walked over to the half-open door and slid inside while the Agent headed for the hallway. Tim tried to ignore Raylan’s interested gaze as it followed him from the kitchen to the locker room.

She didn’t even look up when he came in, though he was sure she knew it was him. She was seated on a bench, back stick straight and hands folded in her lap.

Tim sent his eyes to the left, but there was no one at the window looking in. Still, he leaned against the door, so he was facing Kathryn, but remained mostly obscured by the bank of lockers. He didn’t want Raylan or any other nosey co-workers to be able to see what he was saying to her.

“You need to give them Delia,” he said, and she didn’t move. “Or me.” Kathryn’s gaze traveled slowly up his body until their eyes met, but she didn’t say anything. “If you don’t, you’re screwed.”

“You know, I don’t need my hands free to beat the shit out of you, so I suggest you shut your mouth.”

“Fuck everyone else, Kathryn. Save yourself.”

“Forgive me, Deputy Gutterson, but I don’t think I should be taking legal advice from the man who put these cuffs on.”

“What? No mocking accent for me?” he asked, genuinely curious. He deserved her scorn, after all.

“You already know what I sound like,” she said, “it would be pointless.” Tim just looked at her, pleading silently for her to listen to his advice, but she lowered her gaze and he knew he’d lost his chance. When she spoke again, it was in a soft whisper, “Don’t give them anything that could incriminate you, Tim. You’re almost clear of this whole mess.”

Before he could respond, the door yanked open and Tim had to catch himself before he fell out of the room in an undignified sprawl.

“Thanks, man,” the Agent said, “I owe you one.”

Tim picked his coffee up from the counter and made his way back to his desk. He was glad to see that Raylan hadn’t moved from his cubicle.

“You look perturbed, Timothy. Lover’s quarrel?”

“Up all night talking logistics with Reed. I’m not _perturbed_ , just drained.”

“How did you set up that rendezvous with Geller, anyway?”

Tim took a sip of his bitter coffee, disliking the cheeky grin on Raylan’s face.

“Trade secret, Raylan. Need to know and all that, and since you’re still laid up on desk duty…” Tim turned his own sly smile on the older Marshal, whose expression had turned to a frown, “Better luck next time, buddy.”

Tim tossed the rest of the coffee back and then turned his attention to the massive amount of backlogged paperwork on his desk. He wasn’t ready to return to his apartment, and mindless busy work was exactly the thing he needed to distract himself from Reed, Raylan, and the rancorous fugitive currently waiting for transport twenty feet away from him.


	19. Travel Companions

It was too fucking early, Tim decided. When his cell had gone off at 4 AM, Tim had resolutely ignored it.

At least, he had the first time. But then whoever it was called him again. And again. And then he finally relented on the fourth try.

“What in the hell could possibly be so goddamn important right now?”

“Geller got jumped. We need you in the office.”

Art had sounded equally disgruntled, and when Tim arrived at the courthouse, he found Art, Reed, and… _Fuck_ … Raylan crowded around Reed’s laptop in the conference room. When they noticed Tim’s arrival, the smile on Raylan’s face made Tim wish he’d chucked the phone into the garbage disposal instead of answering it.

“It is too fucking early for this bullshit, Chief, excuse my language,” Tim said as he swung the large glass door open. “Or don’t, I don’t care. Why am I here?”

Art failed to suppress his amusement at Tim’s sullen tone, “Raylan is transporting Ms. Geller from lockup, and he requested you as his backup.”

He _definitely_ should have thrown the phone in the disposal. Or a blender. Or maybe he should have run it over and then flushed it.

The laptop the three men were crowded over was showing a security feed from the prison where Kathryn had been sent two days prior. Despite Tim’s insistence that she should be placed in protective custody because she was both an accused cop killer and an informant, Vasquez had purposefully delayed the paperwork, hoping a few days in the county lockup would loosen her tongue.

Apparently, all it had done was nearly get her killed.

The picture was grainy, but he could see Kathryn standing at a sink, brushing her teeth, as two fellow inmates crept up behind her. Tim clenched his jaw, but kept the rest of his body resolutely disinterested.

“They don’t have mirrors, so she couldn’t see them coming,” Reed said.

Tim watched as one of the women pulled a shiv from the lining of her jumpsuit. Kathryn must have heard them approaching, finally, because she turned around just in time to block the woman’s attempt to slice across her kidneys.

Kathryn spat out her toothbrush and brought her right elbow up into the woman’s face, moments before the second assailant managed to grab her arm. As the first woman rounded on her with the makeshift weapon once again, Kathryn used her left leg to kick her in the solar plexus, sending her stumbling back beyond the camera’s view.

Kathryn then spun around, bringing her left elbow up to connect with the jaw of the woman restraining her right arm. When the woman loosened her grip, Kathryn brought both hands to the back of her head and slammed the woman’s face against her knee before letting her drop, useless and unconscious, to the floor.

Kathryn turned quickly, but she wasn’t quite fast enough to totally dodge the next attack and the woman’s improvised knife managed to slice into Kathryn’s upper back and shoulder as she spun around. Even in black and white, Tim could see the blood blossoming in a dark splash across her uniform.

The two women circled one another for a moment, both poised for attack. Kathryn successfully dodged a few experimental swings, but she made no move to retaliate. Tim could see her wince when she sidestepped, and he wondered how deep the cut on her back was. For a moment, he was sure he was about to watch her die. Art must have meant they were transporting her corpse.

But when Kathryn’s adversary took an ill-timed swipe, Kathryn used the opportunity to trap the woman’s arm with her own. She twisted the woman’s shoulder, bending her over in an armbar.

When Kathryn swung her left fist down against the woman’s elbow, Tim swore he could hear the bones snap as the shiv when spiraling across the bathroom floor. The relief Tim felt only lasted a moment as the woman threw her head backward and smashed her skull into Kathryn’s nose, sending her flying back into the sink before she ran at her again, using her unbroken arm to punch Kathryn in the stomach.

Kathryn’s arms flew up to the woman’s shoulders, and the two grappled with one another until they ended up on the floor, twisting madly in an attempt to gain an advantage over one another.

Finally, Kathryn ended up on her back, her legs wrapped around the other woman’s hips to hold her in place, and her strong arms locked tightly around her throat.

Tim winced as the woman flailed against Kathryn’s grip, clawing desperately at her forearms in an attempt to breathe. He knew how hard it was to strangle another person to death, and he did not envy Kathryn her position.

It felt like an agonizingly long time before the woman’s movements finally slowed, and then ceased forever.

Kathryn rolled the woman’s body off herself, breathing heavily and looking toward the other inmate, who still hadn’t moved.

She only had a moment’s respite before a trio of prison guards finally made it into the room. Kathryn, still lying prone on the floor, lifted her arms over her head, palms open in surrender.

But that didn’t stop the guards from delivering a hell of a beating. It didn’t matter that Kathryn had been jumped; she’d still killed a cop, and the thrashing she received from the LEOs rivaled—and maybe even surpassed—the one she’d received from the two women.

Finally, they heaved Kathryn to her feet and dragged her out of the bathroom, ostensibly to the infirmary for treatment, but likely to solitary where she would be left to lick her wounds and suffer in isolation.

Reed snapped the laptop shut.

“The woman with the shiv was Cynthia Dobrev. She’s dead, and her associate is still unconscious in the infirmary. They both have close ties to the Russians who Ms. Geller killed in Daniel Boone.”

“Allegedly killed,” Art corrected him, but Reed ignored the adjustment.

“Vasquez got the paperwork through to get Geller to one of our safe houses for now, and we’d like to move her as soon as possible.”

“Why all the urgency?” Tim asked. While he knew why _he_ wanted Kathryn out of there, it seemed strange that anyone else gave two shits about what happened to Sarah Geller behind bars.

Reed’s eyes caught Tim’s and held them, “Vincent Dawson was seen on security footage leaving a hospital late last night. Right after Chad Anderson was found dead in his room.”

Tim suddenly felt completely and totally awake.

“It looks like the Russians are cleaning house, and this might be our chance to draw Dawson out by using Geller as an incentive.”

“You mean bait,” Tim said, and he could barely contain the snarl in his words.

Reed shrugged. “Whatever you want to call it, we need her to get close to him.”

Raylan tugged his hat low over his eyes. “Well Tim, you heard the man, let’s go get your girl.”

#

Raylan had been mercifully silent on the drive to the prison. Though Tim was irritated by the entire situation, he could at least be grateful that the elder Deputy appeared nearly as tired as he felt himself. Raylan’s lethargy was surely all that had saved Tim from interrogation as he drove.

When they walked into the prison, Tim found it quieter than he’d ever seen it. He supposed 5 AM was pretty early, even for a place that ran 24/7. While Raylan filled out the transport paperwork, Tim was tasked with checking out their prisoner.

As she was escorted down the hallway toward him, he could see how badly she was injured. She was favoring her right side something fierce, and her shoulders dipped low to the right like she was trying not to open the wound on her back as she walked.

When she placed her feet on the floor markers, Tim leaned close and gave her a perfunctory pat-down. “Anything I need to know?”

He indicated for her to turn, and when she did, their noses almost brushed because he was still half-bent over. “No,” she said, and he hated the way she purposefully avoided his gaze.

Her lip was split, and he was fairly sure her nose was broken, though it was difficult to tell with all the swelling.

Suddenly, the bruise he’d left on her cheek seemed inconsequential, though it still left an empty feeling in his gut when he thought about it.

“If you want to do a cavity search, I’m sure the guards could get you two a private room,” Raylan teased and it required every ounce of Tim’s training and restraint not to punch him right in the fucking mouth.

“No need, Deputy. If you want a show, I’m happy to strip down right here,” Kathryn said, again changing her voice to favor Raylan’s Harlan-heavy accent.

Tim grasped Kathryn gently by the elbow, but when she didn’t move, he was forced to yank at her, which caused her to hiss and grimace. Why the fuck was she making this so difficult?

“I can see why you like her,” Raylan said suggestively as he stepped aside so Tim could walk her out the front doors. He didn’t like turning his back on his most irritating co-worker; he had a feeling the thin line he’d been walking was about to come to an excruciating end.

And Raylan was just the sort of man to push him off it.

#

The silence Tim had been so grateful for on the ride to pickup Kathryn was gone. Raylan had turned himself half in his seat, so he could look at both Tim and Kathryn, who was sitting primly in the center of the backseat.

Tim kept making accidental eye contact with her when he checked the rearview, and he wished she would slide over so he could ignore her presence completely.

“So, Ms. Geller, it looks like you didn’t play very nice with the other kids.”

Kathryn didn’t say anything at first, and Tim’s grip on the steering wheel tightened a fraction because he could tell from the playful lilt in Raylan’s voice that nothing good was going to come of whatever line of questioning he was about to pursue.

“I was never very good at making friends,” she said, finally, and her voice still had that lazy tilt in it that reminded Tim of moonshine.

“Well, you’ve got at least one friend, don’t you? Tim here seems pretty fond of you.”

Tim trained his eyes straight ahead, refusing to be baited.

“Oh, Deputy, if you want, I could be your friend, too.”

_Deputy Givens_ , Tim thought, _his name is Deputy Raylan Givens._ It felt wrong, somehow, hearing her call another Marshal by just the title.

“Nah, I don’t need anymore friends, I have plenty.” Raylan’s smirk was palpable, even without looking at him.

“I find that hard to believe,” Tim said.

“Tim, I’m hurt. You know how sensitive I can be about my interpersonal relationships.”

Tim almost laughed because the absurdity of the situation at hand was too much to bear. He was rewarded for his quip with a few moments of blissful silence, and he considered turning on the radio to deter any further conversation, but his fingers weren’t quick enough and soon Raylan was back to asking questions.

“How do you feel about Tim, Ms. Geller?”

Tim couldn’t help it; his eyes met hers in the mirror before he could stop himself, and he knew that Raylan had noticed the movement.

“I don’t feel any particular way about Deputy Gutterson,” she said. Tim didn’t want to admit that her words had any effect on him, so he explained the tightness in his chest away as a byproduct of too little sleep and no breakfast.

“Oh come on now, you worked with him before, you must have formulated some impression of the man.”

Raylan’s tone was light as air, but when Tim stole a glance at the older man, he could see his eyes were level and serious, watching Kathryn carefully for the slightest reaction.

“He seems moderately competent in his capacity as a Deputy U.S. Marshal,” she said, finally, and Raylan let out a laugh that almost made Tim jump, it was so forcefully unwarranted.

“Aw, Tim, I don’t think your girlfriend likes you much.”

“Good thing I prefer being single, I guess,” Tim said, as he threw on his blinker and turned off the main road. They were about fifteen minutes away from the safehouse Kathryn had been assigned to for the time being, and Tim was cautiously scanning the roads for anything that looked out of place.

Thus far, nothing had caught his eye, and he found himself relieved that perhaps—just this once—something about this case would go smoothly.

#

The house was a shitty little ranch the Marshals service had acquired during a seizure several years prior. It had been repainted, de-loused, and scrubbed of bodily fluids, and now it was used to house fugitives who required protective custody before their arraignments.

It was a layover; a temporary place to wait for further instructions or a better option.

Raylan went in first, checking the house for any unwanted visitors, and when he motioned for Tim that it was all clear, he heaved Kathryn out of the backseat and escorted her inside.

The house was cramped and the damp smell it emitted seemed to permeate their own clothes the moment they walked in.

“I’m not sure I like this any better than the prison,” Kathryn said, and Tim plunked her down into a kitchen chair. Her wrists and ankles were still cuffed, and he wondered whether he could feasibly keep them on her forever.

“Well, at least there’s a bathroom because you smell pretty ripe,” Tim said.

Raylan leaned toward Kathryn conspiratorily, “I didn’t want to say nothin’ in the car, but he’s not wrong.”

“Blood and pus and no shower privileges will do that,” Kathryn said without looking at either of them.

Raylan lifted his eyes to Tim, and the younger man did not appreciate the impish glint he saw in them.

“What?”

“I was just thinkin’ maybe you could take Ms. Geller to the shower. She’ll need to be monitored, you know, and since you two are already so close…”

“We aren’t _close_ , Raylan,” Tim said, even as he motioned for Kathryn to stand, “and I’d appreciate it if you stopped including me in whatever strange fantasies you seem to have about women involved in open cases.”

Tim knew the barb was lame, but he didn’t have the energy for anything more. Raylan tossed Tim a set of small keys, which he caught easily with his left hand.

Raylan watched Kathryn and Tim carefully as the Marshal directed their prisoner toward the bathroom at the back of the house. He called after them, “I’m gonna call Reed and see when we should expect him! I’ll just be on the porch, so try not to be too loud!”

Tim rolled his eyes, desperately wishing to be anywhere but exactly where he was. He needed a Ford Prefect in his life; someone to whisk him immediately to another galaxy because he was far too tired for this shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I'm really glad I finally get to write more of Raylan picking on Tim.


	20. A Gun in the Hand

When Kathryn stepped into the bathroom, Tim immediately felt awkward.

“Turn around,” he said, and she complied, her face blank and unreadable. “If I uncuff you, are you gonna give me a hard time?”

“Probably.”

Tim sighed, “Could you not? Please? I’m too tired for your bullshit today.” Tim leaned down, deciding to release her legs first before standing and unlocking the cuffs around her wrists. She shook them out, flexing her fingers and rolling her hands around.

“Thank you,” she said, and to Tim it sounded finally like the Kathryn he had come to know instead of the fugitive Sarah Geller.

Tim leaned over and turned on the shower, giving the stall a perfunctory sweep with his eyes to ensure there were no razors or other potentially hazardous implements. All he saw was a plastic bottle of bargain shampoo and a bar of Irish Spring.

“You need anything?” he asked, but she shook her head, so he turned his back to her and leaned against the doorframe to let her undress in privacy. He heard her start to shift out of her jumpsuit, but turned to look instinctively when she made a pained noise.

She had her back to him, and the cut across her right shoulder was bleeding. Whoever had bandaged it had done a piss poor job, and it looked about ten seconds from becoming infected.

“Jesus, Kathryn, stop a second.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said.

“There aren’t any bugs here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m more worried about your nosey friend.” Tim conceded this was not necessarily an overreaction on her part. Dealing with Raylan could certainly be tricky, and despite the man’s every attempt, it was obvious he was more perceptive than he let on.

“Let me bandage this before you get in. Wait here.”

Tim knew he was taking a chance leaving her alone, but the first aid kit was in the kitchen and he didn’t think marching Kathryn half-naked through the house was going to do anyone any favors.

He was pleased to find her seated on the edge of the tub when he returned, seemingly not interested in making a run for it just yet.

Tim sat behind her and removed the sticky gauze covering the wound. He noticed, too, that her ribs were dark purple. A token, no doubt, from the overzealous guards who’d kicked her while she was literally down; crumpled and already injured on the floor.

“You get those ribs checked out?”

She snorted, “They barely gave me an ibuprofen for my nose.”

Even though he’d expected as much, it made Tim angry to know her medical care had been neglected following the attack. “I’ll see if I can get Reed or Art to schedule something for you.”

She didn’t say anything, but he knew she was grateful from the way her tense muscles finally relaxed against his fingers.

The cut wasn’t too deep, but it was jagged and raw; the skin along the edge of the incision nearly shredded by the primitive implement used to do the slashing.

“This needs stitches. And a plastic surgeon if you ever plan to do any modelling.”

He was rewarded for his dumb joke with a short laugh. “You gonna sew me up, Deputy?”

“All I can do is duct tape you back together for now,” he said, and he remembered her doing just that to herself for a similar wound on her abdomen. Then his mind flashed through the last time he’d been in that room, bitter and hurting and out of control.

It was not a memory he relished, and so he forced it away by focusing on the task in front of him, sifting through the contents of the meager first aid kit until he found the tools he needed.

Tim was certainly no medic, but he’d seen his fair share of them work on injured soldiers in the field. At least he didn’t have to contend with the chaos of battle or sand flying into the wound as he’d seen happen a hundred times.

She cursed when he took a gauze pad soaked with antiseptic to the cut, and he mumbled a bashful, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said, and he truly hoped it was.

Tim didn’t know if she understood why he’d done it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to tell her that his only intention was to keep her safe while he figured out the best way to handle Mark Dawson before he had a chance to kill her.

Looking at her damaged body in front of him now, Tim wondered if his plan to keep her out of the hitman’s clutches had been a gross miscalculation. She probably would have stood a better chance without his help.

“Chad Anderson is dead, by the way. Dawson got to him last night.”

“Good,” was her answer.

“Yeah?”

“If he’s dead, he can’t identify you and you’re off the hook.”

“It also means you’re the only one left on Dawson’s docket,” he said as he laid fresh gauze over the long gash on her shoulder. He hoped the tape in the kit would be enough to keep water out of the dressing while she showered and until she could get it looked at properly. “There, that’s as good as I can do.”

“Thanks,” she said, and his eyes lingered on her for a moment before he stood and resumed his station at the door, his back to her as she finished undressing and stepped under the showerhead.

“Try to keep it out of the water, if you can,” he said, “I’m not exactly a professional.”

When she didn’t respond, Tim glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was all right, and he could see through a gap in the curtain that she was leaned heavily against the wall, eyes closed as the water cascaded over her.

He wished he could help her feel less weary and alone, but all he could do for now was continue to keep her out of Dawson’s grasp and hope the rest would work itself out.

“Tim!”

Tim jerked his head back to the front, but not before Kathryn’s eyes snapped open at Raylan’s outburst and their eyes met for a brief second, so she knew he’d been watching her.

“What?”

“Come here.”

Tim shot Kathryn a quick look. “Don’t try anything, okay?”

Kathryn smiled, “Don’t think I could even if I wanted to.”

Tim nodded, satisfied after seeing her injuries that she was being truthful. He didn’t think she was physically capable of outrunning him. Hell, at the present moment, she didn’t look like she could elude Art in a footrace.

Raylan was in the living room, peering carefully through the lace curtains over the front window.

“What is it, Raylan?” Tim asked, half-expecting some lame joke about interrupting his _special time_ with Kathryn.

“Someone’s here,” Raylan said, and when he looked at Tim, the elder Marshal was all business.

“Shit.” Raylan stepped aside so Tim could get a good look. “I didn’t see anyone follow us on our way in.”

“Neither did I, but it looks like somebody figured us out.”

The house they were in sat at the dead-end of a street, and while there were certainly neighbors, none of them were quite close enough to necessitate parking directly outside. Yet, there was a bright red pickup truck idling just across the street, its windows so tinted they looked like they belonged in a black hole.

While it was possible someone had just gotten lost, or was looking for a secluded spot to get a blowjob without their wife noticing, every cell in Tim’s body lit up, and he knew Raylan was right.

“You think it’s Dawson?”

“Dunno; haven’t seen anybody get out of the car, yet.”

Tim flipped the curtains closed and marched quickly back to the bathroom, where Kathryn was still standing under the showerhead, rinsing her hair.

“Get dressed,” he said.

“Why?”

“Somebody’s watching the house and we may need to move quickly.”

Tim was grateful that his history with Kathryn meant she knew he was being serious. She flipped off the water and caught the towel he tossed her with her uncompromised arm before he left her to dry off and get dressed.

“What are you thinking?” he asked Raylan, who was still waiting by the front window.

“Reed’s supposed to be here in a half hour. Maybe if he shows up, it’ll spook ‘em.”

“Not if it’s Dawson.”

“But maybe it isn’t.” Raylan’s eyes drifted away from the window as Kathryn emerged from the bathroom, hair dripping, but re-clothed in her tan coveralls. “Ms. Geller, I’m gonna need you to stay away from the windows.”

“Who is it?” she asked, but she was looking at Tim, not Raylan, and Tim knew his Raylan had noticed as much.

“We don’t know.”

Kathryn ignored Raylan’s warning entirely, walking straight up to the front door and peering carefully out the window cut into the top of it.

“Ms. Geller, I said—”

“I know what you said, Deputy Givens, but I can tell you who that is.”

#

“You know this guy?” Tim asked.

Kathryn nodded. “He used to work under Solkov until he got promoted and his job went to Popescu.”

“Are those real names?” Raylan’s face made it clear he didn’t care for the clunky monikers in the least.

“Yep,” Tim said, “I killed both of them.”

“This guy—Dmitri Korsakova—was always a slimeball. He used to kiss me on the mouth every time we met, told me it was a ‘Russian greeting.’” Kathryn’s face wrinkled in disgust, “He was always chewing tobacco when he did it.” Kathryn moved away from the window, which Tim had to admit was a relief, “I was honestly surprised it took him so long to move up because he’s the exact kind of scumbag these people always seem to want at the top.”

“Who are _these people_?” Raylan asked.

Tim answered, but his eyes were still locked on Kathryn’s. “Human traffickers, mostly. What do you think we should do?”

“I—”

“Not you, Raylan.”

Tim knew he was taking a risk, but if there was ever a moment he knew he could trust Kathryn, it was this. He’d take his ass chewing later, and plead his case for forgiveness to Raylan and Reed and Vasquez and the goddamn Director of the FBI if he had to.

For now, she was the person he wanted in his corner and on his six.

“He won’t be alone,” she said, “And I wouldn’t be surprised if they had someone coming up through the woods in the back. That’s what I would have done.”

“How’d they figure out where you are?”

Kathryn shook her head, “They must have known you’d move me after I killed that idiot they sent. I assume they followed us from the prison.”

“Hold on just a second.” Tim couldn’t stop the eye roll. He didn’t have the time or patience for Raylan’s bullshit. “Tim—”

Tim pulled his backup piece from its holster and held it out to Kathryn. She reached for it, but Raylan pulled his weapon first. Tim had nearly forgotten how quick he was on the draw.

“I’m gonna have to stop you right there, Tim. We are not giving the federal fugitive in our custody—wanted for _murder_ , as I recall—a loaded weapon.”

Tim could have pointed his handgun at Raylan to prove a point. He could have threatened to shoot him dead at point blank range. He was sure such a bluff would have worked. But he decided a more diplomatic approach might serve him better under the circumstances.

“Raylan, I am telling you, we can trust her. _I_ trust her.”

Raylan looked at Tim intently. “Well, I don’t.”

“We need her. If they’re surrounding this place—and they probably are—you know I’m right,” he paused, waiting to see if that was enough for Raylan to change his mind. When it didn’t appear to be, he added, “I don’t have my rifle with me.”

Raylan considered Tim’s words for a moment before he reluctantly lowered his weapon.

Kathryn took the proffered handgun from Tim and walked toward the back of the house, to the kitchen, where she peeked over the window ledge cautiously.

Tim unholstered his official weapon, waiting for Kathryn’s confirmation.

“There are two men on the treeline,” she said.

“Fuck.”

“There could be more, but that’s all I can see.”

Kathryn reentered the living room and Raylan’s gaze fell to the piece in her hands.

“I swear to god, Tim, if she kills you, I’m—”

“Trust me, Raylan, if Ms. Geller wanted either of us dead, we would be already.” Tim decided that playing up Kathryn’s ruthlessness now wasn’t a bad idea, and from the smile that spread across her face at his words, he assumed she agreed.

What Tim neglected to mention was the fact that she’d had at least a dozen opportunities to kill him in all the time they’d spent together. Often, in much more vulnerable or embarrassing situations. He knew the trust he had in her as related to his own life was not misplaced, but he couldn’t be entirely sure that would hold true for Raylan or anyone else from the task force; he could only hope.

Raylan didn’t need to know that detail, however.


	21. Two in the Bush

“Yep. Okay. You got it.”

“What did he say?”

Raylan tucked his cellphone back in his jacket. “Reed’s on his way, and he said he’ll bring the cavalry, but they’re still twenty minutes out.”

“Shit.”

Raylan started stretching a little, twisting himself from side to side and cracking his back while he pulled one arm and then the other across his chest to loosen his shoulders.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Well, Tim, as you may recall, I’m still injured. Wasn’t even supposed to go back to light duty until the start of next week, but you and your girlfriend seem to have landed me in some right _un_ -light duty.”

“As _I_ recall, you _volunteered_ to transport her.”

“Well, naturally, but I didn’t think we’d be getting into a firefight with some Slavic gangsters. I thought I’d be takin’ a nap while the two of you cuddled and whispered sweet nothings to one another.”

Kathryn snorted. “You seem to have some very romantic ideas about our relationship, Deputy Givens.”

“And you seem to have lost your holler accent, Ms. Geller, but I’m not one to call out another person’s flaws.”

Now it was Tim’s turn to snort, especially when Kathryn glared petulantly back at Raylan in response. He, for one, was glad she finally sounded like herself again.

“Shut up, Raylan. We don’t have time for this.”

“If I’m going to die today, Tim, I’m at least gonna have a little fun first.”

#

Tim had spent plenty of time in a warzone. More time than he should have, if he was being honest with himself. But the feeling of being hunted is never something you learn to be comfortable with.

The sensation of becoming someone’s prey is a primal thing, and the adrenaline that starts pumping when you realize you are not in control is an important part of the process.

So Tim let the sensation flood his body for a moment before he reined it back in; he allowed himself to feel the ice-cold dread of impending death because he knew feeling it could save his life. Human instinct was not a thing to be taken lightly; there was a reason he’d made it back from all those tours when not all of his buddies had.

Tim’s instincts were pure and sharp; fine-tuned. Coupled with his training, he knew the flood of hormones from his sympathetic nervous system would serve him well. As his adrenal glands kicked into high gear, he could feel his awareness tightening as his pupils dilated and his blood began pumping faster.

Let the fuckers try; this wouldn’t be the first time Tim had survived a pincer, even if he hoped it was the last.

Kathryn and Tim had set themselves up in the kitchen, where they could keep an eye on the backyard and the two men in the trees. Raylan was still at the front of the house, where the truck remained stoic and immobile.

“You think Dawson is with them?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know, honestly. I don’t really know anything about Mark Dawson.”

Tim knew plenty about the guy—or at least about the murders he’d committed—and he wasn’t convinced he was the type to play nice and follow the leader. Still, “We should assume he’s here, then.” The last thing Tim wanted was for Dawson to catch them off guard.

“I’ve got movement!”

Tim looked at Kathryn, who nodded, and then he made his way to Raylan’s position at the front of the house.

Two men were getting out of the truck, and based on Kathryn’s brief description of Korsakova, Tim assumed the balding man with the gold rings and brown teeth was probably him.

Korsakova hitched his trousers up as his companion—a muscular guy who looked like he could’ve played middle linebacker for the Titans—came up beside him casually carrying an SVD sniper rifle.

Tim frowned. The rifle had to be mostly for show; their position in the house made it unnecessary. It did ease Tim’s concern that perhaps Dawson was hiding somewhere in the trees behind the house, though.

If Dawson was here, he’d be the one with the rifle.

“Deputy U.S. Marshals!” Korsakova had a thick accent, and his voice was deep and booming. He spat something brown and foul out of his mouth and Tim saw Raylan’s nose wrinkle in distaste. “We only want the woman. Send her out and we’ll leave you to your paperwork.”

Raylan smiled at Tim, who returned the look with a grin of his own. “Sorry there, chief, but that ain’t gonna happen!” Raylan yelled back. “Why don’t you and your boys just get back in that ugly ass truck and head home.”

Korsakova spat again, and the friendly look on his face was quickly replaced with one of cool malice. “You get one minute to send her out here to me. If I don’t see her, we’re going to kill all three of you.”

“I’m afraid the lady is indisposed at the moment. Taking a shower. Why don’t you fellas come back in a half-hour or so when she’s done?”

Tim didn’t like the grin that split Korsakova’s face, revealing his ugly, stained teeth.

“You send her out to me naked, and I’ll let you watch, Deputy Givens.”

Tim’s blood ran like ice, and he could feel his hands shake the slightest bit as his body flooded with catecholamines.

“He knows who we are,” Tim growled between his teeth.

Raylan watched Tim with a firm set to his jaw, but then he smiled that shit-eating Raylan smile and it helped Tim ease the tension in his body the slightest bit. The older man’s eyes never left Tim’s as he responded. “No can do, Mr. Korsakova. I think you’re just gonna have to come in here and get her yourself.”

Korsakova shrugged, spitting again. “Fine by me.” He brought his fingers up to his lips and whistled. The sound was loud and piercingly clear.

“Showtime,” Raylan said, and Tim stayed low as he returned to the kitchen.

Kathryn was still in the same position, crouched under the window that looked out over the small backyard.

“They’re coming,” she said, without looking at him. “Still no sign of Dawson.”

Tim only saw one of them carrying a gun, and it only took him a moment to realize why the second man appeared empty-handed.

“Grenade!” Tim yelled, and he pulled Kathryn with him through the doorway.

Tim knew they didn’t have many great options for cover, and he was grateful that Raylan followed Kathryn as Tim shoved her over toward the couch, where she sprawled onto the floor before kicking herself back into a crouched position. With some effort, Tim flipped the heavy wooden coffee table onto its side, propping it between their bodies and the couch.

And he hoped.

The blast from a grenade isn’t all that powerful; you were only guaranteed a kill if someone was within15 feet of the stupid thing. But the shrapnel… that was another problem. If the man out back was smart and had an arm, he’d probably get it within a foot or two of the house, and that could still cause plenty of damage.

Tim heard the grenade thunk against the siding, where it must have bounced and landed somewhere on the grass nearby. He put his hand over Kathryn’s head, pressing it down below the edge of the table.

As the device detonated, it sent splinters of wood flying through the windows, and he could hear metal piercing the flimsy plaster wall above their heads. Shards went flying over them, and the couch made sputtering noises as the fabric and stuffing tore to shreds.

Tim, Kathryn, and Raylan crouched close together. When Tim felt some of the shrapnel pieces thunk into the table he had used as an improvised shield, he’d never been so glad for solid oak in his fucking life. If the damned thing had been made of particleboard, they might all well be dead, or wishing they were.

Raylan had left his back turned to the table, and he fired off a shot as soon as the hail of shrapnel died down. Korsakova’s bodyguard took it to the shoulder, but he recovered quickly enough.

At least, he thought he’d recovered. Tim sent a bullet to his face before the man could even register what was happening, and he crumpled onto the floor. Kathryn peeked over the edge of the table, but quickly squatted back down as bullets zipped over their heads.

“All your dates end like this?” Raylan shouted.

And for once, Tim smiled, too elated to still be breathing to give a shit about Raylan’s teasing. “Only the good ones.”

Raylan moved himself away from the table, keeping low as he made his way back toward the windows.

When the bullets paused overhead, Tim and Kathryn stood in unison, each finding the closest enemy. Tim only required a single shot to put his down for good, while Kathryn opted for a double-tap to the chest of the man in front of her. Regardless of the method, the end result was the same—both of them fell bonelessly to the floor.

“I’ve lost Korsakova,” Raylan said, peering out the window. “Truck’s still there, though.” Raylan stood, making his way toward the open front door to get a better view, stepping carefully over the linebacker’s body as he did so.

Tim walked cautiously through what remained of the kitchen, which was precious little. “I don’t see anyone out back!”

Tim returned to the doorway, and the next few moments unfolded painfully slow.

First, he saw Raylan’s eyes widen as he looked at Kathryn, who had raised Tim’s weapon in his direction. Tim, on instinct, put Kathryn in his sights and he was only a breath away from pulling the trigger when he heard her fire first.

Tim’s stomach dropped. He had gotten his partner killed. He had put his trust in the wrong person, and now Raylan was going to pay for his poor judgment.

But Raylan never slumped to the floor. Instead, Korsakova’s body thumped against the doorframe before landing heavily at the cowboy’s feet.

Kathryn put her hands up, removing her finger from the trigger of the gun in the same motion. She crouched down, placing the gun on the floor and sliding it carefully away from her.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, Deputy Givens,” she said, and Tim could see in the older man’s eyes that she had, even if he would never admit it.

The relief Tim felt was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. As he lowered his weapon, he found himself elated. He’d never been so thankful to leave someone in his crosshairs alive.

“You almost gave me a heart attack, Ms. Geller,” Raylan said as he holstered his own weapon, “But I suppose I should be thanking you.”

“Please don’t,” she said. “It’d probably be best if no one knew I ever held that gun.”

She was asking Raylan for a favor—a big one—and Tim didn’t know whether Raylan was the kind of man to do that for a fugitive, especially one he barely knew.

Tim kept his weapon at the ready, still not entirely convinced there weren’t more men hiding in the woods somewhere, waiting for them to let their guard down. He watched anxiously as Raylan walked toward Kathryn, bending over to pick up Tim’s backup with all the grace of an alley cat.

Kathryn remained perfectly motionless, hands still thrown up in surrender. When Raylan stood back up, he leaned in close to her and held her gaze with an intensity that made Tim squirm all the way across the room.

Then Raylan held the gun out toward Tim. “You’d better work on your story, Timmy. I’m sure there’s gonna be questions about how you managed to wield two pistols against these assholes.”

Tim took a few steps and grasped the handgun carefully.

It was then that they heard the sirens.

“Fucking cavalry. Late as usual,” Tim said, as he finally holstered both weapons.

Raylan looked back at Kathryn, who hadn’t moved from her position. “We’d best get those cuffs back on you, Ms. Geller, if we want them to believe our story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, y'all, we are officially in the home stretch. I'm nervous to post the next few chapters because I want to make sure I do the story justice right up 'til the end.
> 
> I was going to post this chapter tomorrow, but it's done now, so why wait? Will be back with the next two next week, so have a great rest of the week/weekend!


	22. Bait.

It was only after Tim had punched Special Agent Matthew Reed in the face that he realized he’d decked more cops than criminals in the last week. He considered whether maybe it was time for him to change professions.

“What the hell, Tim!” Rachel said as she yanked him back. Tim probably could have shaken her off, but he knew better than to try. Rachel had always been a lot stronger and tougher than she looked, and he had no desire to wind up hip-checked onto the floor. He needed to stay upright if he was every going to get a second chance to hit Reed.

“Deputy Gutterson, I’d like to remind you that I am your superior in regards to this task force.”

“Fuck the task force, you sold us out.” Reed wiggled his jaw back and forth, rubbing his right thumb along the bone to feel for tenderness, wincing. There was some blood in his mouth, but as far as Tim was concerned, it wasn’t nearly enough. Rachel still had hold of him, though, so he couldn’t punch Reed again. Yet. “Come on, Raylan, back me up here!”

Raylan was leaned coolly against the door to the conference room, his head tilted down so the brim of his hat obscured his face entirely.

“I hafta say, Agent Reed, I’m inclined to agree with Tim’s view, even if I don’t agree with his methods.”

“If I’d realized Korsakova was the one who’d show up, I wouldn’t have leaked the information. I thought they’d send Dawson.”

Art banged his hand down on the table, and when Tim looked at his boss, he could see his fury clearly, even as the older man tried desperately to rein it in. “You put two of my Deputies in danger, Agent Reed. You very nearly got them killed. And your only regret is that they weren’t up against an _even more_ dangerous criminal?”

Reed shrugged, and Tim felt the urge to do more than punch him. “We need Dawson. Without him, we’ll never know who hired him.”

“The fucking Russians hired him!” Tim shouted, and he knew he needed to calm down, but the ability to speak without screaming seemed to have been ripped out of him somewhere between delivering Kathryn back into FBI custody and finding out that Agent Reed had been the one to tip off the Russians about her location.

The unctuous look Reed gave Tim did nothing to quell the latter’s desire to mash his face into chum. “You seem to have a bit of a temper, Deputy Gutterson. Do you often punch your law enforcement colleagues with such unrestrained rage?”

Tim understood the meaning of Reed’s words quite clearly. But with Anderson dead, he knew the man only had his instincts, and even if they were correct, there was no way to prove them.

His threat had no substance, and Reed was going to have to try a lot harder if he wanted Tim to spare him a broken clavicle and a few missing teeth.

“You could have at least warned us,” Raylan said quietly.

“If I had, you might not have followed my instructions.”

“So you would have been okay with them dying?” Art asked, forcing each letter between his teeth like too-thick grits.

Reed shrugged again, “I had faith in their abilities.”

The room lulled into an excruciatingly tense silence. Reed picked up an empty coffee cup and spit blood into it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Tim squeezed his fists tightly and released them, hoping the stretching of his fingers would help relieve some of his frustration.

It did not.

“What if I offer to help you get Dawson?”

Kathryn was seated—still cuffed at ankles and wrists—in a chair in the corner. She had been completely silent at the scene, in the car, and at the courthouse. Tim thought maybe she’d gone mute from the shock of Raylan’s acquiescence to her request.

Tim knew he almost had himself, he’d been so surprised.

When she finally spoke, it was with that light California accent she had perfectly detected in Reed’s voice, so it was clear she was speaking to him directly.

“What are you suggesting?” the Agent asked.

Kathryn remained perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, but her eyes were intense and piercing as she looked at Reed. “Use me to lure him out, but do it correctly this time. If I don’t die,” Tim flinched against Rachel’s grip, which tightened minutely, “I want to cut a deal.”

#

“I don’t fucking like this.”

“You don’t have to like it, Deputy Gutterson, you just have to do your Goddamn job.”

Reed didn’t even look at Tim as he said it, his eyes were fixed on the television, waiting for the news to start. Tim was leaned against the glass between the conference room and Art’s office, sullen and pouting.

The office was much quieter than it had been. All non-essential personnel had been sent home to rest up for what was sure to be an excruciating and exhausting day that was set to start early the next morning.

Tim had actually been dismissed some time ago, but he was too jittery to sleep and so he’d stayed behind, intent on reviewing every piece of information he had over and over until he had it memorized.

After all, Kathryn’s life depended on it.

The woman in question was currently in Art’s office with David Vasquez, hammering out the terms of her agreement with the FBI. Reed had been part of the negotiations until recently, and Art had remained in his office in more of a power play than anything.

Tim couldn’t hear what they were discussing. He only hoped Kathryn was smart enough to look out for her own interests over everything else, including him.

And especially including Delia, who had made absolutely no attempt to contact him since he had visited her home.

When the breaking news banner flashed across the screen, Reed used the remote to unmute the television.

The anchor was a pretty blonde woman in her twenties, and she was wearing a bright yellow blazer that made Tim’s eyes hurt. “And tonight, we have breaking news regarding the fugitive Sarah Geller who we featured on our program earlier in the week,” they flashed a photo of Geller up on the screen, “After being taken into custody over the weekend, Ms. Geller will be transferred to the Kentucky Correctional Institution for Women following her arraignment at the Lexington County Courthouse earlier this evening. Sarah Geller stands accused of the murder of FBI Agent Christopher Romero, and is a suspect in a shooting that occurred in Daniel Boone National Forest,” the photograph of Kathryn they were using was the same one from her original file, with her natural hair color. It reminded Tim how much he hated the black dye she was still sporting. “We will provide updates as this case progresses.”

Reed muted the television.

“All right,” he said, “Let’s see if that’s enough to get Dawson on the hook.”

#

Tim was bent over a map on his desk, retracing their planned route for what felt like the thousandth time when Vasquez finally exited Art’s office. The man looked more exhausted than Tim had ever seen him, with his tie dangling loose and limp around his neck.

“What are you still doing here, Deputy Gutterson?”

“Making sure I don’t fuck up tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t it be prudent to get some sleep, then?”

“Sleep don’t make you a better shot, preparation does.”

Vasquez looked like he wanted to say something else, but he sighed and turned toward the conference room instead. Reed was slumped back in his seat, dead asleep with his mouth open.

“Tell him I left if he wakes up? Ms. Geller’s deal will be on his desk tomorrow for approval.”

“Assuming she doesn’t die.”

Vasquez nodded, “We can only hope,” he said, and Tim had the distinct inclination that he and Vasquez had opposing feelings on the subject.

“Did she ask for anything?” Tim didn’t know why he asked Vasquez; he supposed his genuine curiosity had gotten the better of him.

“Aside from reduced sentencing?” Tim was surprised when Vasquez smiled a little. “She asked for music. She wants to listen to music tonight before we transport her.”

“Like a last request?”

Vasquez shrugged. “Maybe.”

Once Vasquez left, Tim shot another look at Reed, who was still out, and then he walked into Art’s office.

The Chief Deputy was leaning back in his seat, a glass of bourbon coming slowly away from his lips. He looked up, surprised by Tim’s appearance. “What in the hell are you still doing here?”

“Reviewing my mission parameters,” he said, and Art’s expression faltered before it softened. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a second glass so he could pour Tim his own drink.

Tim had expected Kathryn to be seated in one of the wooden chairs opposite Art’s desk, but she was perched instead on the couch, still chained. She looked tired, but alert, and Tim wondered how much of her discussion with Vasquez had included reviewing details of her own past.

Tim took a seat as Art slid the glass across his desk.

“How do you feel about it? The mission?”

Tim gave a short laugh as he took his first sip of bourbon. “I think it’s fuckin’ stupid,” he said, and Art nodded slowly.

“It probably is. But then, most FBI operations are.”

Tim smirked. The two man drank in silence and Tim wondered if he was allowed to speak with Kathryn.

“I’ve gotta hit the head. Can you watch Ms. Geller for a minute? Vasquez is supposed to send someone up to bring her to the holding cell downstairs, but it’ll probably be a minute.”

Tim looked up at Art, confused for a moment, until the older man clapped Tim on the shoulder as he walked past, and he pulled the door closed behind him.

Art was giving Tim the chance to speak with Kathryn alone, and Tim wasn’t sure exactly what that meant.

Tim stood and turned, leaning against Art’s desk so he could face Kathryn comfortably.

“You okay?” he asked, and she nodded, though it wasn’t entirely convincing. “I don’t like this.”

“You’ll be fine, Deputy.”

“I don’t like that we’re betting your life on my ability to pull before Mark Dawson when we don’t even know where he’ll be.”

“I believe in you,” she said with an exhausted smile. “You can do it!” Her voice was a whispered shout, and she pumped her fists with mock enthusiasm like some morose imitation of a high school cheerleader.

The image was somewhat tarnished by the clanking of her wrist restraints.

“What did you tell Vasquez?”

“Enough that he’ll get a dozen convictions if he’s half as good as he thinks he is. Nothing about you, though, so don’t worry.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

That caught her attention, and when she looked up at him this time, he could see the fear—slight and well-managed, but still there—in her eyes.

“I trust you,” she said quietly. “You saved my ass in that field, and I know you’ll do it again tomorrow.”

“What if I don’t?”

She shrugged. “You tried to stop me, Tim. It’s not your fault I’m so fucking stubborn.”

They stayed like that, quiet and watching one another, until the handle turned, and Tim walked to the door, brushing past Art as he entered.

“Goodnight, Art. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Tim knew the Chief Deputy was watching him as he flew through the office and out the door, but he didn’t care how strange his behavior might seem. He had prep work to do and he couldn’t do it so close to her.

He couldn’t look at Kathryn while he tried to think of all the different ways Sarah Geller might die tomorrow. But he had to think of them; had to imagine every possible scenario in which she might lose her life.

It was the only way he could be prepared to stop them from happening.


	23. The Assassination of Sarah Geller by the Coward Tim Gutterson

The drive from 105 Barr Street in Lexington to 3000 Ash Avenue in Peewee Valley, Kentucky took a normal person approximately one hour and thirteen minutes. With the two vehicles they had, plus the police escort, Tim figured they might make it in an hour and seven.

It was a relatively straight shot down I-64 W to Route 60, and Tim thought the terrain was stupid because it left them open to attack from all sides at all times. Still, it also meant he’d hopefully have a clear shot when he needed one. And even if the shot was a little muddy, he had every intention of taking it anyway.

Mark Dawson had to die if Kathryn was going to live. This was a fact; something Tim had known for a long time, and he was glad he was finally going to have the chance to make it happen. Even if Kathryn still went to prison for the rest of her life and he never saw her again, knowing she was still breathing would be his reward for killing the wily motherfucker and putting an end to all the misery he’d ever caused.

The night before Kathryn’s transport, Tim removed his favorite rifle from the Marshals’ armory—the Remington 700P. It wasn’t his preferred weapon in every circumstance, and there were certainly more robust sniper rifles available, but it was light and easy to maneuver with, and Tim figured he’d probably need to be mobile if they were able to draw Mark Dawson out.

As he cleaned and serviced the weapon at his dining room table, Tim thought about everything that would likely go wrong during this stupid fucking operation. And every time he watched Kathryn’s head explode or her chest burst open in his mind, he felt like someone was taking an ice pick and sliding it carefully between his ribs, puncturing his lungs just enough to make it impossible to breathe. Not enough for him to die, though, and so he watched her various violent demises on a loop in his brain.

He should have let her martyr herself in that field. She could have bled out on the stupid goldenrod bushes and his life would be back to normal by now. Maybe he would have had a few sleepless nights and had to go back to see that douchebag therapist for a while, but by now, he’d be picking up cute girls at the bar again and arresting Harlan County idiots for fun.

Easy. Detached. Predictable.

Instead, he was wrestling with the thought that he gave a shit about what happened to Kathryn tomorrow. He was busy wrangling his emotions so he could fucking think straight enough to hopefully—hopefully, if he was lucky—save her idiot skin and let her live long enough to see the inside of another prison cell.

It was a long night. A night that ended with a bleak grey sunrise and a hot coffee with sugar and a shot of Jim. All the reading, the review, the preparation; Tim had done everything he possibly could to ensure the integrity of the mission.

But if Tim had known what he did now—if he’d had the fucking brains to figure it out ahead of time, he would have realized their route to the prison didn’t matter. His weapon of choice was inconsequential, the amount of caffeine in his cup unimportant, and the angle of the vehicles as they approached the last turn toward KCIW irrelevant.

Because Sarah Geller never even made it out of the parking garage.

#

Tim didn’t like to be surprised. Maybe that, in the end, was the thing he disliked most about Kathryn all together.

She was always catching him off guard. The first time she’d kissed him, the way she’d changed her voice in the conference room, when she’d told him about her tattoos—it felt like she was constantly forcing him up onto his toes, craning his neck just so he could see over the curtain to figure out what her next act was going to be.

But as she lay on the cement, too much blood draining from her body and staining it dark brown, he realized that Kathryn throwing herself in front of a bullet should have been the exact thing he expected from her.

What a fucking pain in the ass.

“Gutterson!”

Tim ducked his head back around the side of the SUV, and found Reed looking at him between the vehicles, his glock in his hands.

“You see him?” Tim asked.

Reed shook his head, “Not from this angle. He’s not alone, though.”

Tim already knew that, of course. Because his eyes had met hers the moment it had all gone to hell.

Delia was here.

Tim remained crouched low as he ran toward Reed, eventually sitting himself directly next to the Agent, their backs to a black SUV whose windows were now functionally useless. He knew Art and Rachel were somewhere behind him, a couple of rows down, but he couldn’t see them.

A few exploratory shots rang out, but it didn’t sound like anyone was hitting anything, which was both a relief and an irritation.

“Is Geller dead?” Reed asked.

“I don’t know,” Tim said, and it was a low growl between clenched teeth.

“She took that bullet for you.”

Tim didn’t answer. He didn’t have to; Reed hadn’t been asking a question, he’d been stating an obvious fact. Tim had watched in horror as Kathryn stepped between his body and the projectile, but he hadn’t seen exactly where she’d been hit. He only knew there was a lot of blood and she hadn’t moved once she’d gone down, landing heavy and hard against the pavement.

None of them had been prepared for an ambush before they’d even made it to the street. With all the security surrounding the courthouse already, it would take them days to figure out how Dawson had managed to make his way in, though Tim was relatively certain they could thank somehow Delia for his presence.

It was probably going to take even longer to figure out why he’d aimed for Tim instead of Kathryn.

“We’ve got to find Dawson,” Reed said, and Tim nodded.

The men took off in opposite directions, running low between the rows of cars. Tim heard glass shatter behind him, but he didn’t pause to see what was happening. He needed to find a good place to set up so he could finally put an end to this bullshit.

#

Battles are messy and confusing. No matter how much training you’ve undergone or how well-prepared you think you are, your first real combat situation will have you feeling whiplashed and ragged. Even after many, there was no accounting for the disorienting way the sounds of bullets ricocheting off different materials echoed around you, making it impossible to know where they were all coming from. There was no way to filter out the shouting of your comrades or the cacophony of your own footsteps. All you could do was breathe and trust that your brain and your body knew what they were doing.

Tim had been through plenty of battles of one kind or another, but each one set his ears ringing and wreaked havoc on his nerves. He could hear sirens somewhere in the distance, and Art was shouting instructions at someone behind him, but Tim’s heart was racing as he sprinted between the cars, trying to keep his head low and out of the sight of Dawson’s rifle, so these things only vaguely registered somewhere in the back of his mind; unimportant information that wasn’t going to save his life.

That wasn’t going to save Kathryn.

When he made it to the end of the row of cars, Tim spun around and set his rifle against the back windshield of the last vehicle, a little red ‘90s Honda, making sure the angle of his position would make it almost impossible for anyone to hit him.

Through his scope, Tim could see the other Marshals and FBI agents clearly, but he wasn’t looking for them. He wanted Dawson.

He wanted Delia.

Tim scanned the area methodically, waiting for the glimmer of a scope as it caught the light or the sheen of a sweaty, unfamiliar forehead.

Suddenly, a shot whizzed by Tim’s head, missing him by mere inches to imbed itself in the cement beam behind him. The shot was close enough to make his ears hurt, but it was all he needed to find at least one of the assailants, and he was pleased when he swung his rifle to follow the bullet’s trajectory and he saw Mark Dawson’s face appear in his crosshairs.

Tim had to duck because he knew there was another shot coming. It flew into the concrete next to the first one, and would have hit him if he hadn’t moved. As soon as it flew by him, Tim moved a few inches to the left and stood back up, bringing the scope to his eye in a graceful arc.

He knew Dawson would be on the move, and when he looked back at the assassin’s previous location, sure enough, the man was gone.

But Tim had a starting point now, and he swept his rifle across the tops of the vehicles, skipping easily over the heads of the men and women of the Marshals service. He made sure to keep moving, however slowly, so it would be difficult for Dawson to take another good shot. It took him longer than he’d like, but on his second sweep, Tim finally found his target. Dawson was running full-out for the staircase at the opposite end of the parking structure.

“Gotcha.”

Tim calculated Dawson’s speed, decided on his shot, and pulled. It took only a few seconds for his bullet to hit its intended target. Mark Dawson didn’t even have time to register the pain of the round as it pierced his flesh before it severed his spinal cord.

Deputy Gutterson didn’t miss, and Dawson had learned that shit the hard way as his body flailed at the top of the stairs, and then tumbled lifelessly down them.

Tim didn’t envy whatever crime scene technician would be tasked with scraping his gooey, broken remains from the metal railing and concrete steps.

#

Tim moved cautiously, now, more concerned about Delia’s stealth than her speed. He’d only seen her for a second, and that had been what felt like ages ago. There was no telling where she was now, he could only hope he might get a little lucky.

He could have maintained his position; maybe he should have. But he was hoping for the chance to check on Kathryn, or to at least get an update from someone who might have seen where she’d been hit.

Because the cold ache in the pit of his stomach was telling him she was dead, and that it was his fault.

He’d made it all the way to Art without seeing any sign of Delia, or getting a good look at Kathryn’s body.

“You good, Tim?”

“Yeah, Chief. You?”

“I’m gettin’ too old for this shit. Otherwise fine.”

“Have you seen Dawson’s accomplice?”

The older man shook his head, and the sour feeling in Tim’s stomach intensified. It was feasible Delia had already managed to escape.

“Where’s Reed?”

“I haven’t seen him in a minute,” Art said, but he nodded over his left shoulder. “He went that way.”

Tim followed Art’s directions, creeping along silently, rifle still in hand. He realized, belatedly, that he was also moving back toward the last place he’d seen Kathryn. His heart raced the closer he got. He paused at the last possible moment, hoping that when he turned the corner around the front of the SUV, Kathryn would be sitting upright, cross-legged and pissed off at his dumbassedry.

But when Tim peered around the bumper, Kathryn was still prone on the ground, and nothing had changed except the size of the stain beneath her body. Tim couldn’t even tell from this distance whether she was still breathing. He began moving toward her, intent on checking her pulse, when Delia’s voice crept down his spine like ice water.

“I told you, Corporal, that if anything happened to Kat, I’d come looking for you.”

Tim spun around, but he wasn’t quick enough. The butt of Delia’s handgun came down hard over his left eye, and his vision blurred first with the beginnings of a concussion, and then with the metallic sting of blood.

#

Muscle memory is an important thing for a lot of reasons. Mostly, because it will save your fucking life when your ears are ringing and you can’t see straight.

As Delia moved to point her gun at him, Tim swung his legs in a long sweeping arc against the ground, which sent her toppling to the side. Before she could regain her balance fully, Tim managed to stand and wrap his arms around her waist, driving her backward into the hood of the nearest car.

This move was especially useful because it not only knocked the wind out of her for a moment, but it sent the gun in her hands skittering across the concrete and away from her trigger finger.

Delia was a pro, however, and she soon had the advantage over Tim, who was not an expert in hand-to-hand combat. There was a reason Tim was a sniper; he was a lot better with a rifle than with his fists.

And his fucking ears were still ringing.

Perhaps thankfully, Delia’s fighting style didn’t involve trading brute force blows. It was more a matter of controlling momentum and restricting her opponent’s range of motion. She kept trying to get her arms under Tim’s so she could put him in a headlock, but his muscles knew this and moved instinctually out of her grasp, even as his vision swam.

The problem was her movements seemed to be speeding up as his slowed down, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his arms could no longer outsmart hers.

Tim needed to get his hands on his weapon, but it was all he could do to keep her forearm off his throat, and he had no time to draw.

“Deputy Gutterson!”

The brief moment of distraction hearing his name brought with it was all Delia needed; she turned him so his back was to her, snaking her left hand under his armpit and then behind his head to clasp her right bicep, which she’d used to pin his shoulder in a painfully twisted position with his right arm raised high overhead.

Now Tim’s body was between hers and Reed’s gun.

Reed, for all that he was trying to help, had made Tim a hostage, and Tim was pretty pissed about it.

“Why didn’t you just shoot her?” he asked, irate and still bleeding into his eye, so his vision was obscured on the left side.

“We can’t all be as good a marksman as you, I’m afraid. I didn’t have a shot.” Tim knew maybe he was being paranoid, but something in Reed’s voice made him think this was an exaggeration; that Reed hadn’t shot her not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to.

Tim remembered Delia was worth more to Reed alive than dead. He wondered if the same could be said for himself.

“Now, Ms…”

“You can call me Delia.”

Reed nodded, “Ms. Delia, I’m gonna have to ask you to let Deputy Gutterson go.”

Tim didn’t need to see her face to hear the sneer in her voice. “That’s not going to happen, Agent Reed. Mr. Gutterson and I,”—man, she spat his name out of her mouth like she'd swallowed a fly; Tim almost laughed at the ferocity and the accusatory tone—“have some unfinished business to attend to.” Except he remembered he was too busy hoping not to die to really be amused.

Tim wondered if Reed recognized her from the grainy black and white photo. He wondered if after she killed him, the weird FBI Agent would be able to figure out exactly why. Reed was clever, so Tim decided to have faith in his sleuthing abilities. It was a small comfort in his current predicament to know his killer would one day stand trial.

Tim could hear the shuffling of other Agents and Marshals as they surrounded Delia. He was not happy in the least that he was at the center of the clamor. He should have stayed out of the way and waited for his shot instead of running back into the fray.

His desire to check on Kathryn was probably what was going to get him killed. Or at least maimed.

Everyone stood in tense silence. None of the LEOs here had Tim’s eye, and he knew they would all be too chickenshit to pull for fear of hitting him instead. Delia was surrounded, now, and he didn’t want to think about what that meant for his own well-being.

She didn’t seem like the type of person to go down without a fight.

Tim’s assumption was proven correct as she pulled his gun from his hip holster and brought it up to his chin, his head and left arm still held tightly in place so he couldn’t escape.

“Unless you’d like to see Deputy Gutterson’s face blown off, I suggest you give me a clear path out of here.” Tim had to admire Delia’s calm intonation. There were few people who could sound like they were ordering a sandwich while they were threatening to murder someone at point blank range.

Tim thought he heard something rustling behind him, but the sound was so quiet he couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe it was just the early stages of his concussion practicing the auditory hallucinations he was sure to enjoy for the next few days.

And then it happened.

He felt the jolt of Delia’s body as something forceful turned it, and when her grip loosened, he spun around to disarm her.

The bullet in her right leg had already done that for him, however, and so he ended up simply catching her body as it tumbled forward and she grabbed at the wound, screaming. Reed and Art and Rachel descended on the pair, tearing Delia away from Tim and slamming her face onto the hood of the nearest vehicle as they restrained her.

Tim looked behind him, and there she was.

Kathryn, twisted on the ground in a puddle of her own blood, holding Delia’s gun in her hands.

There were tears streaking through the sticky red mess on her face, and it made Tim feel like a failure and a dipshit because he’d been unable to keep her from harm. Because she’d had to save him, instead.

Because she’d been forced to betray the only person she loved in order to do it.

#

When the EMTs finally got the clear to come up to the parking level they were on, they had to start giving Kathryn blood right away. Tim watched the crew work furiously over her, and his heart sank into his toes.

Her consciousness had only lasted a minute or two before she’d passed out again. It looked like she’d hit her head pretty hard when she’d gone down the first time, which was likely why she hadn’t moved.

He tried to find solace and humor in the fact that they’d sustained matching head wounds. And that his stupid mistake hadn’t quite killed her.

At least not yet.

She’d taken the bullet to her left shoulder, and her prognosis, though not necessarily dire, was also not good. Recovery from that wound could never be assured, and as they rushed her away in an ambulance—sirens blaring—Tim felt a strong desire to go with her, even as the EMT in front of him worked to close the gash over his eye with a butterfly bandage.

“You’re gonna need to undergo a concussion evaluation,” she said, and Tim made a noise that might have sounded like acquiescence if you didn’t think about it too much.

When the tech moved away, Tim’s hand flew up to the bandage and pressed on it. The sharp zip of the sting shot through the whole left side of his body. It made his fingers tingle.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to poke it,” Reed said, smirking at him with more amusement than Tim felt was strictly professional.

“You a doctor, now?”

Reed leaned against the car next to Tim. He didn’t say anything, but he was chewing the inside of his lip like he was eating lunch, so Tim figured if he waited long enough, something would come tumbling out of his mouth.

“So Geller took a bullet from Dawson for you, and then she shot that woman.”

Tim swallowed and nodded.

“But you’re still telling me the two of you only worked together once, with Romero?”

Tim nodded again. He knew Kathryn would be pissed at him if he deviated from their story now.

“And she pummeled Chad Anderson, a man twice her size, with her fists until he nearly had to be put on life support.”

“Can’t judge a book by its cover, Agent Reed. Or a person’s strength from their stature.” Even as he said it, it sounded dumb. But it was, technically speaking, quite true.

It was Reed’s turn to nod, and the quiet little smile he sported gave Tim hope that maybe this was all going to be okay, in the end.

“I’ll do what I can for Geller.”

“Assuming she lives.” The words felt like barbs wedged painfully between Tim’s teeth, but they were necessary. Because it wasn’t a given that Kathryn was going to make it. And if she didn’t, the responsibility for her death would lie squarely between Tim Gutterson’s shoulders.

_Although_ … and he wondered if it was too much to hope for.

“Yes,” Reed conceded, “If she lives. Between what happened here today and her cooperation with Vasquez, and with Anderson dead already… I don’t think she’ll be in for much time, at least. Might even be able to keep her out altogether if David will work with me.”

Tim looked Agent Reed in the eyes, and his gaze was level and serious. “If she dies, though…” he trailed off, kicking his toe into the ground, “No charges, no… anything.” He watched as Reed considered his words, brow furrowing comically as he did so, and Tim wondered if the man understood what he meant. Reed was still a strange guy—and a smart one—so Tim decided to believe there was a chance. “You still want to recruit her?” Tim asked, shifting the subject.

Reed clapped Tim on the back, smirking. “We can’t tell what the future holds, Deputy Gutterson, we’ve just gotta roll with the punches we are dealt today,” he paused, “or yesterday, as the case may be.”

Tim watched Reed walk off to speak with one of his Agents, and the weary sniper pinched his shoulders together to crack his back. He swept his eyes over toward the second ambulance, the one with an injured Delia strapped down to a gurney. Their eyes met, and the vitriol in her stare made his nape go cold.

After all Kathryn had done to keep Tim’s head above water, he knew Delia could plunge him under the tide with relative ease.

It seemed Kathryn was not the only one with an uncertain future.

Reed made his way over to the transport and climbed into the back much too gracefully, giving Delia a patented Stanford smile. The fact that he was accompanying Delia wherever they were taking her did nothing to assuage Tim’s concerns. He was grateful when they closed the doors and the ambulance drove away without its lights on.

It was barely past 8 AM and already Tim Gutterson needed a stiff drink and a nap.


	24. The Patient Will See You Now

It took nearly ten hours for the debrief with the Marshals, the Lexington PD, and the FBI. By the time Tim made it back to his apartment, he was so exhausted he could hardly see straight. Though, he figured that may have been at least partially attributable to the head wound.

Once he’d managed to stumble through the door, the best Tim could do was sit down in the tub while the shower rinsed him off. He managed to keep the dressing on the cut, at least, and then he threw a towel around his middle and tripped toward the bedroom.

He wanted a drink, desperately, but he knew with his brain already swimming it was a bad idea, so he crawled under the blankets still wrapped in his towel and let his eyes close for a few blissful hours of rest.

When Tim woke up in the dark, it was with the feeling of a nasty hangover and dry mouth. He worked his tongue around, but it felt like cotton, and so he got out of bed and grabbed a glass of tap water from the kitchen, which he guzzled.

Had he drunk any water yesterday?

Tim checked the clock; it had, indeed, been yesterday. It was just past midnight, which meant he’d slept nearly six hours, for which he was incredibly grateful. He filled the glass again before he stooped down to pull his laptop out from under the couch where he’d last stashed it. He brought both items back to the bedroom.

Tim sat up against the headboard, setting his drink on the table and pulling open the drawer. He removed the manila folder marked “PERSONAL” that he’d swiped from Kathryn’s home.

Kathryn’s vitals, the last he heard, had been stable, but she was not yet out of the woods. Tim had desperately wished he could see her at the hospital, but he knew it would have looked bad for both of them if he’d neglected his work to do so.

He had to at least wait until morning, when a detour on his way into the office would seem more reasonable.

Instead, Tim flipped open the laptop and logged on to the VPN. He pulled out the newspaper clipping and looked once more at the photograph and its caption. He didn’t really need to; he knew the name because it had been seared into his brain the first time he’d realized who she was.

_Andrea Bunting (8)._

Tim went to the missing persons database and typed in the name and age of disappearance. His fingers hovered over the enter button for a moment, and then hammered it as if the force of his tap might improve the results.

And then there she was. They’d used a school photo for her file, and even though it was from nearly three years after the newspaper story, it was clearly the same girl. She was missing two teeth, but that didn’t stop her from beaming widely at the camera.

Kathryn had been a cute kid. It was a shame she’d never gotten the chance to enjoy being one.

Tim scanned the rest of the bulletin, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Name: Andrea Kathryn Bunting. Date of birth: November 9, 1979. Parents: Kathryn Elizabeth Bunting (maiden name Harris) and Rodney Brian Bunting. Reported missing by a teacher, Mrs. Harriet King. It turned out Kathryn’s soft accent was from Georgia, at least originally.

Tim did a quick search for Kathryn’s father, and there was a report from the local PD in Blue Ridge about his overdose death. Kathryn’s mother, by all accounts, appeared to still be alive. There was a driver’s license with her name and likeness attributed to an Athens, TN address. He quickly stored that information away in his brain for future use, whether that was telling Kathryn one day her mother was alive—and not that far away—or if he’d be notifying Mrs. Bunting of her daughter’s passing in the coming days.

That was the least he could do for her, wasn’t it? Tell her mother that she’d died taking a bullet for him?

Tim closed the laptop and leaned back against the wooden headboard. His skull was buzzing, and so he closed his eyes, willing the noise to stop.

#

When Tim made it to her hospital room, it was just before six o’clock in the morning. Nearly twenty-four hours since everything had gone to hell in the parking garage and Kathryn had stepped between him and certain death.

Raylan was sitting by the door with his nose buried in a magazine. Tim had hoped maybe he’d catch Nelson on guard duty, but he was also smart enough to understand he deserved all the bad luck he could get.

“She awake?” Tim asked.

“Yep,” Raylan said, without looking up.

“She allowed visitors?”

“Nope.”

“You need a break?”

Raylan shook his head.

Tim squirmed a little, trying to figure out his next move, tapping his fingers against his gun in its holster.

“Just go in, Tim.” And when he looked down at Raylan this time, the man was peering up at him from under the brim of his hat with a knowing smirk.

“Jackass,” Tim said.

Raylan returned to his magazine and Tim took a deep breath before he opened the door and stepped inside.

He normally found the repetitive beeping sounds and the soft whirr of hospital machinery disconcerting, but in this instance, Tim decided the noises were comforting.

They meant she was alive.

“Howdy, Deputy. You come to arrest me again?”

Kathryn looked small and pale on the hospital bed, surrounded by too much white.

Tim smiled, “No ma’am.” He stopped at the foot of her bed and tugged on the chain of a cuff securing her to the plastic railing. “Doesn’t look like it’d do much good, anyway.”

“I guess not.”

He paused awkwardly, his fingers lingering on Kathryn’s ankle. She gazed at him evenly, and he wished not for the first time that he could read her vague expressions. He would never understand how her face could be so accessible to him sometimes and an unreadable mystery others. Tim squeezed her leg firmly for a moment, then let go, resting his hand on his hip in what he hoped looked like a relaxed stance.

He could sense that Kathryn wanted to ask him something, and he was pretty sure he knew what. He was going to make her say it first, though. He was too stubborn to offer the information freely.

“Delia?” was all she could muster, and it stung a little for him to know the woman still mattered so much to her.

Tim had come here to check on Kathryn’s health—and to hopefully reassure her. He suddenly realized he was not wholly confident in his ability to do so.

"She's… alive," he said, “Reed accompanied her to the hospital, and she’ll be remanded into FBI custody once she’s discharged.” He hoped that was sufficient. He didn't want to discuss the specifics; didn't want to muddy the waters with the complex details of the situation.

He didn’t want to think about what Delia knew or who she might tell it to. Because as long as Delia was alive and well, his future and Kathryn’s were still very uncertain.

Tim wished he could tell her he would make sure she was okay; that he would protect her from the fallout of Delia’s capture. But his influence only reached so far; there were never any guarantees.

“How much did she pay to have Dawson kill you?”

Kathryn couldn’t look at him as she asked, but he smirked a little anyway, “Eight grand,” he said.

“Not bad.”

“Wanna know how much the Russians paid him for you?” She looked up, uncertain but curious. “Twenty-two.”

“Hundred?”

Kathryn’s eyebrows shot up when Tim shook his head, and he laughed. “I thought it was a little steep, too. I guess you were really running them out of business.”

The grin that spread over her face was worth the sting to his ego knowing she’d been worth a lot more than him. He adjusted his stance, scratching absently at the bandage over his left eye.

“How’s the arm?” he asked, finally.

“Sore. How’s your face?”

“Hurts,” he admitted. And then Tim hesitated, not sure if he should ask his real question; whether it was prudent to pull at this particular thread. Then he looked at the bruise on her face and decided it was, “Why’d you do it?”

Kathryn licked her lips, considering her answer carefully. For a second, Tim thought she might actually say it, but the words that fell out of her mouth eventually were just another convenient excuse. “Would’ve felt like a dick if you died,” she said. “Why are you here?”

He shrugged. “Feel like a dick because you almost did.” But it came out in a whisper, and so it didn’t sound like the joke he’d meant for it to be.

In the silence that stretched to fill the next moments, Tim thought maybe that was as close as they would ever get. Maybe it was close enough.

They lingered in the strange and tenuous quiet, punctuated only by the beeping of Kathryn’s medical surveillance, neither sure of what to say next.

Perhaps thankfully, Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens removed that uncertainty by entering the room in a flourish.

“Good morning, lovebirds. Sorry to intrude, but my shift is almost up.”

“Oh, Raylan, you know it’s always a pleasure to see you.” From the thick, syrupy sweetness dripping off Kathryn’s tongue, Tim sensed the two had spent some time together while she’d been laid up and Tim had been de-briefing.

“Pleasure’s mine, Ms. Geller. Now, before I leave, I just have one last question.” Raylan stared at Kathryn, who returned his gaze with equal intensity. “Was Tim with you at Daniel Boone?”

“No.”

She hadn’t even hesitated. Hadn’t blinked. Tim was so enthralled by her commitment to the lie, he almost felt guilty for what he was about to do.

“Yes,” he said, and he watched Kathryn’s eyes nearly fly out of her face as they snapped over to meet his. He was still amazed by the way she’d kept every other muscle in her body perfectly still. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to that flawless tranquility. Tim held her gaze firmly as he continued, “We went camping. Ate beef jerky under the stars. It was real romantic.”

Tim didn’t bother to look at Raylan, but Kathryn swung her gaze back to the older man. “I think Deputy Gutterson should head down the hall for a CT scan. Looks like maybe his head injury is more severe than we thought. He’s clearly confused.”

When Tim did finally look at his fellow Marshal, the man had a smug, satisfied little smile playing across his features, like he’d just heard an incredible joke that no one else understood. Raylan brought his fingertips to his hat and tipped it. “Ms. Geller. Tim.”

And then he left. No biting or sarcastic remark. No promise of future trouble. Raylan Givens, now in possession of the confirmation he’d been seeking for weeks, stepped out of the hospital room without any further comment.

“What the fuck, Tim?”

He shrugged, “He was just gonna keep asking, anyway. Now maybe at least he’ll shut up.”

“You better hope he does, or you’re gonna be in the shit.”

“There’s no proof, it’d be my word and yours against his. Reed already thinks it was Romero, and it’s cleaner that way, anyway.”

“You seem pretty sure there, Deputy.”

He thought about his conversation with Reed in the parking garage, and he nodded. “I am.”

The sound that escaped Kathryn’s lips made it very clear she was not as confident as he was in his assertion.

Tim knew it was time to leave, but he needed to tell her something first. He just wasn’t sure how to say it.

“There’s a lot that’s gonna happen in the next few months. I don’t know the extent of it or where I’m gonna fall in the whole goddamn mess.” He swallowed, and it felt thick and dry at the same time. Kathryn was staring at him, waiting to hear what he was trying to say. He wished she’d somehow just know without him having to finish the thought. His voice was low and quiet when he continued, “I just… whatever happens, Kathryn, I know who you are. I know what you’ve done.”

Kathryn’s eyes maintained their trademark ferocity, but there was a glassiness to them that hadn’t been there before. She looked like she was going to say something, but then she swallowed it down and just nodded.

And that was that.

Tim let his fingers trail gently over the blanket covering her leg as he turned to leave, and squeezed her ankle once more before letting her go.

“Get well soon, ma’am.”

“You too, Deputy.”

When Tim pulled the door closed behind him, Raylan was back in his seat, reading his magazine.

“See you, Raylan.”

“See ya, Tim.”

Tim hesitated a moment, waiting for Raylan to say something else. Some trademark sarcastic Raylan Givens thing. But there was just silence, and the flipping of pages in his National Geographic, which Tim knew for a fact the man wasn’t reading.

And so Tim headed for the door and drove himself to the office.

#

Later that night, after another long day of filling out paperwork, Tim sat in his living room, staring at the Tracfone he’d purchased. He supposed he no longer needed it. But as he looked at the phone, he thought he could almost hear Kathryn’s husky laugh, and he was loathe to destroy it or chuck it in the garbage.

He stared at the thing like he was willing it to ring; willing her voice to return to him through the speaker.

In truth, what he actually wanted was for her to appear sitting on the couch next to him. But the phone remained silent; the cushion beside him empty, and so he put the phone on the floor and ground his boot into it with all the force of his frustration.

Mulling over his conversation with Kathryn in the hospital, Tim wondered if he had done the right thing by visiting her. It was likely the last chance he’d ever have to speak with her alone, and he was grateful to Raylan for that. But he’d hated seeing her looking so fragile, and he tried to push the image from his mind.

For Tim, Kathryn’s tenacity and strength were an indomitable part of her, and he didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing her helpless. The way she’d looked on that bed, too small and so weak, reminded him of the night he’d held her as she cried.

Tim’s mistake, of course, was thinking of holding her at all, because it sent his mind wandering to places it shouldn’t; to other hotel rooms and other touches. The stress of the last 72 hours had taken their toll, and Tim wanted nothing more than the physical reassurance and release of another body next to him.

Of Kathryn next to him, he could finally admit to himself.

Tim thought perhaps a shower was in order before he headed to bed in pursuit of some sleep. Once he’d stepped into the water, though, he realized it was a futile endeavor. Even with the rush of the shower over his ears, all he could hear was Kathryn’s low, throaty laugh and it made his stomach coil in a tight, telltale knot. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead into the cool tiles in an attempt to expunge the lascivious thoughts of her.

But even the sting of the cut above his eye wasn’t enough to distract him. When this tactic did not work, Tim stood upright and turned the water from warm to arctic, hoping it would help clear his mind.

It did not.

Frustrated, Tim decided he had no recourse but to give in, so he reached low and closed his eyes, calling forth his memories of Kathryn and the time they’d spent together.

Her hair, smelling like cheap motel soap. Her pale skin slick with passion and sweat. The way she tasted. Kathryn covered in blood lying on the cement— _no_. He forcefully pushed the image of her, pale and unmoving, out of his mind and replaced it with a different one—Kathryn lying _on the bed beneath him_.

Tim leaned forward again, supporting his weight on the wall of the shower, his left hand gripping desperately at the tile.

The way her skin felt soft beneath his calloused fingers. Her hair falling like a curtain around their faces, pressed together in a world of their own. Her mouth on his mouth, his neck, his chest… lower. The feeling as he—

And then it was finished, and he let his ragged breathing slow to a sigh before he turned the warm water on again, helping to relax tense muscles and wash away the remnants of his weakness.

When had he become such a fucking sap? And why had he gone to see her at the hospital? Seeing her—touching her, even as little as he had—was only going to make things worse. Kathryn’s fate was still uncertain, but Tim was relatively confident it did not include riding off into the sunset with him.

Despite the release, Tim found himself still wishing she were here, mouth parted as she breathed unevenly with him. He squeezed his eyes closed against the image, but it only brought her into sharper focus. The fact that his needs were no longer purely physical was not something he wished to dwell on, especially when the probability that he would ever see her like that again was essentially zero.

Eventually, he crawled into bed, a bourbon in hand. Exhausted and defeated, Tim threw the drink back and folded himself under the blankets.

Alone.


	25. Queen Sacrifice

The intervening weeks were an intense blur. Harlan County, as ever, took up much of Tim’s time and energy, but whenever he was alone in his apartment, or out at the bar, Tim found himself wondering about Kathryn. How she was doing. What she was doing.

If she was thinking of him. Whether she was safe as she awaited trial.

It was no way to live, if he was being honest, and so he poured himself into his work, re-doubling his efforts to be the fastest Marshal in the office when it came to follow-ups and incident reports. He found his brain less able to focus on memories of Kathryn when he was trying to figure out how to diplomatically phrase the words “fucking skeezy junkie rapist,” so he could submit his paperwork.

It was a Wednesday evening when he got the call from Reed. Tim had been sipping a beer with Rachel and Nelson, lamenting how he’d somehow traded the Odessa Mafia for their dipshit Dixie cousins and wondering how to disentangle himself from Raylan’s interpersonal bullshit, when he’d excused himself to the parking lot to answer.

“Gutterson.”

“Hi, Deputy Gutterson. This is Special Agent Matthew Reed.”

“I know who it is. You’re not some one night stand I picked up at last call, I didn’t delete your number.”

Tim could sense the humor in Reed’s voice when he responded, “Good to know I managed to sneak into your contacts, then,” he paused, “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind coming to my office to help me with an interview.”

“Who you interviewin’?”

“I believe you’ll remember Delia, the woman who held you hostage in the parking garage?”

Tim would be lying to himself if he couldn’t admit his blood ran a little cooler at the name. “She did leave an impression,” he said, and Reed chuckled a little.

“Well, it turns out her real name is Dominique Hughes and she’s ex-CIA.”

“What do you need my help for?”

“I’d just like an extra set of eyes, and I figured you might be up to the task.”

Tim swirled his options through his mind like mouthwash, trying to decide whether it was worth the trip. On the one hand, knowing what Delia said might be helpful; there was still plenty she could tell Reed about him that could land himself and Kathryn both in a heap of trouble. At least knowing early might give him a head start if he needed to bug out or fabricate an alibi. On the other, Delia might have already aired all his dirty laundry. It seemed odd to Tim that Reed was calling for an interrogation now. What had taken so long?

And then Tim thought of all the shit Raylan was stirring up, and he figured he’d rather watch Delia squirm under the bright fluorescents of Reed’s interrogation room than listen to him prattle incessantly about Robert Quarles—or worse, spend another night on Raylan’s floor.

Even if Reed had already spoken with Delia and this was just an elaborate ruse to get Tim close enough for an arrest, it would be nice to stretch his legs beyond the courthouse.

“I think I could probably make a little time for you. You want me to tell Art?”

“I’ve already asked him and he gave you up.”

“So this wasn’t so much an invitation as a subpoena.”

“If that’s how you want to look at it. Art has all the details. I’ll see you in a few days.”

Tim hung up and he considered heading back into the bar, but his buzz was fading and he didn’t think he’d be half as charming as he’d been after his fourth beer, so he decided an Irish goodbye was his best bet. Rachel would forgive him.

Probably.

#

It took just about an hour for Tim to drive out to the FBI office in Louisville on Friday. He’d taken the trip without any urgency; rolling the windows down and listening to the drone of the radio as it drifted in and out of the rushing wind.

His mind wandered to his first encounter with Delia; his surprise at her appearance in his bedroom. How he’d found her an enigmatic and illusive figure. It had seemed so natural that Kathryn would follow her—even blindly—because it was impossible not to be drawn in by her elegant clothes and highly manicured speech.

But it turned out even someone as well put together as Delia, with her exceptional background and vast resources, could be incredibly flawed. She had acted out of some protective instinct, reaching out to Mark Dawson in order to exact revenge on Romero for turning on Kathryn. Had that been some half-baked maternal impulse? Or just a way for Delia to cover her own ass?

Tim still wasn’t sure, even after he’d cornered her at her own home.

If Kathryn was inscrutable, her mentor was nigh incomprehensible. Tim had a feeling that someone with Reed’s background might be able to diagnose her with a personality disorder. She seemed narcissistic at best and pathological at worst, at least in Tim’s highly unprofessional opinion. He would have no difficulty envisioning her as the villain in some James Patterson novel.

Which reminded him, he needed to return _When the Wind Blows_ to the library. It must have been at least a week past due. It had been a welcome break from Tolkien’s heavier work, though, and he was looking forward to reading _The Lake House_ and maybe even the rest of the series after.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever have the stamina to finish _Return of the King_ ; the indexes had overwhelmed him less than halfway through. And part of him decided he wasn’t quite ready to reach the end of the very long journey, so he’d set it aside in favor of the lighter Patterson works, hoping Nelson wouldn’t need his copy back any time soon.

As Tim pulled into the visitor’s lot, he looked up at the squat, utilitarian building and wondered whether he’d made the right decision in coming. He had to admit his track record pertaining to trusting people had been subpar recently, and he was not wholly confident that Reed was a man who could be trusted.

#

Special Agent Matthew Reed had a small office on the third floor, tucked away next to a utility closet at the end of the hall, as far from the elevators as was possible. His door was propped open, and Tim rapped his knuckles on the metal frame when Reed’s attention was not drawn by his shadow.

When the man looked up from his paperwork, he seemed surprised to see Tim standing in his doorway.

“Deputy Gutterson, I wasn’t expecting you until,” he checked his watch, “shit—now.”

Reed sprang up from his chair, unrolling his sleeves and tightening his necktie. “I hope the drive wasn’t too bad?”

“Not at all,” Tim said, “nice day for a drive, anyway.”

And it had been; sunny and bright, but with a cool snap to the air. Tim figured if it was his last drive as a free man, he’d be okay with that.

Reed threw on his blazer and Tim suddenly wondered whether his grey pants and navy blue sweater were inappropriate.

“I didn’t bring a tux,” he said, and Reed looked up at him, a lopsided grin tugging at the left corner of his mouth.

“To be fair, I didn’t give you the dress code. It’s fine; you’ll be in the booth, anyway.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. He’d assumed when Reed had asked for his help that he’d be in the interrogation room himself. He found the thought of being obscured behind one-way glass extremely comforting.

He wasn’t sure he was quite ready to look Delia in the eye again.

Tim followed Reed, who was shuffling through pages in a thick manilla file, back down the hallway toward the elevators. They bypassed them, however, and worked their way around a bend in the hallway to the opposite end of the building.

Reed used his ID badge to open a door, and he let Tim in. There was already another agent in there, and she looked up, seemingly surprised by Tim’s appearance.

“Hagan, this is Deputy U.S. Marshal Tim Gutterson. I’ve asked him to sit in.”

The woman, Hagan, nodded, and returned to looking through the glass. Reed gave Tim a quick smile and a wink, and then he pulled the door tightly closed.

Hagan was seated at a desk, with a notepad and the controls for the recording device they’d be using for audio. There was another chair, but it was too close to her, so Tim decided instead to lean against the back wall, dead-center.

When he looked up, he could see Delia sitting casually at a metal table; her hands folded together in front of her.

Her steady gaze and intense stillness were unnervingly similar to the way Kathryn had responded to interrogation at the Marshals’ office. Tim’s hand went to rest instinctually on his holster, but his fingers flinched away when he remembered it was empty; he’d had to surrender it when he’d been allowed in with his lame little visitors pass.

Delia didn’t move when Reed opened the door with purposeful force. Tim wasn’t sure she’d even blinked.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Hughes. My name is Special Agent Matthew Reed. You may remember me from Lexington?”

Reed set the big file in his hands on the table with a flourish and took the seat across from Delia, leaning back and crossing one ankle over his knee casually.

“I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to get the clearance to speak with you. It turns out you have quite an impressive resume. But I’d like you to know, now, that I’ve been given the go-ahead from your former superiors at DHS and the CIA; they don’t believe there’s anything you could tell me that would be a threat to national security. You’ve been out of the game too long, I’m afraid.”

Tim wasn’t prepared for Delia to actually respond. “That depends on which game you’re referring to, Mr. Reed.”

“Which game should we discuss? Your misappropriation of funds and tax evasion, or your vigilante crew posing as informants?”

Delia only smiled in response, and Tim found the effect made him think of Jeffrey Dahmer.

“We have Sarah Geller in custody, as you well know. I identified two other operatives working for you by tracing bank records, but they seem to have disappeared. I’d love to know where you’ve sent them, so I could speak with them directly.”

When she didn’t respond, Reed flipped open the file, pulling out two photographs and sliding them across to Delia. Tim couldn’t see from this angle, but he assumed they were the photos of Melendez and Fairway Reed had shown him at his dining table.

Delia, for her part, offered no reaction. Not that Tim would have expected any less.

“Ms. Hughes, I’m sure you realize that your participation in the shootout that resulted in Mark Dawson’s death carries with it consequences. We were able to trace his records back to you, so I know you paid him for two contracts.”

Delia’s mouth set into a hard line, and her eyes remained fiercely trained on Reed’s face.

“One of those contracts was fulfilled, and resulted in the death of Christopher Romero. The second was effectively cancelled when your target—Deputy U.S. Marshal Timothy J. Gutterson—killed Dawson instead.”

Tim tensed. He could feel Hagan’s gaze swing over to look at him, but he refused to look back, keeping his eyes trained precisely forward, waiting.

“What is your relationship to Deputy Gutterson?” Reed asked.

“I don’t have one.”

“You were willing to pay thousands of dollars to have him murdered, but you have no relationship with him? I believe you told me the two of you had unfinished business when I asked you to release him. You were even on a first name basis.”

Tim’s fingers were tapping a furious rhythm against his thighs, and he knew Hagan had noticed. With all the self-restraint he could muster, Tim stilled his hand and focused on Delia’s next words.

“He arrested Sarah Geller. It was a business decision.”

Even from here, Tim could see that Reed didn’t believe her. So this was why he’d been summoned. Hagan had done a good job of pretending she hadn’t expected him, but it was clear now her notebook wasn’t for the interrogation.

It was for her observations of his reaction.

“Why did you have Agent Romero killed?”

“He was actively interested in killing Sarah Geller.”

“You mean through Serge Solkov and his associates?”

Delia nodded. “I didn’t think anyone would miss a dirty agent. If you all did your jobs better, I wouldn’t have had to intervene.”

“I’m sure his wife and daughter miss him very much.”

Delia’s smile did nothing to dissuade Tim from his Dahmer comparison. “Don’t fucking try that empathy bullshit on me. I know Romero was single and childless, I’m not a moron or some green goddamn cadet.”

“Fair enough, Ms. Hughes. You can’t blame me for trying.”

“All I want to know is what is happening to Sarah Geller. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

“You mean the woman who shot you?”

Tim watched Delia’s reaction carefully. On the surface, she didn’t appear to respond at all, but her eyes—previously flat and emotionless—now gleamed. The glint was dark and dangerous; it was something Tim had only seen once before, in her kitchen, when she’d told him she had no intention of blinking.

Tim couldn’t stop the slight shiver that ran up his spine, even as he watched Hagan jot it down.

“You weren’t expecting that, were you?” Reed stood and leaned against the glass, forcing Tim to take a step to the right in order to maintain a visual of Delia. “I’ll be honest, she took me by surprise, too. Maybe I should have known. After all, she’s helped Tim Gutterson before, hasn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do, Ms. Hughes. And he’s helped her, hasn’t he? He helped her evade capture after Romero’s murder.”

“I severely doubt that Corporal Gutterson has the capabilities necessary to do any such thing.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Ms. Hughes. Deputy Gutterson is quite a capable federal officer.”

Delia’s derisive snort made it quite clear she did not share Reed’s opinion. _Still managed to catch you by surprise_ , Tim thought, with no small amount of satisfaction.

He remembered smashing that greasy pizza into her entryway carpet happily, though he was careful not to let that show outwardly because Hagan’s eyes were obviously back on him, however surreptitious she thought she was being.

“What is Geller’s relationship with Gutterson?”

“They met one another during that operation Romero set up with Solkov and his men.”

“And then what?”

“And then nothing.”

“What about Daniel Boone?”

Tim strained his left calf muscle because he figured it was the only safe part of his body to manifest any tension; covered by his grey jeans, there was no way Hagan could see it, even if he’d need to spend twenty minutes massaging the cramp out of it later.

“What about it?”

“Were they both there?”

There was a long pause and Tim considered his options for running. He didn’t even know whether the door to the room he was in would open without the use of an ID card, so he figured he might have to take his chances with Hagan if it didn’t. She was armed, but if he had surprise on his side, he might be able to overpower her. Getting out of the building was another ma—

“Neither of them were in Daniel Boone. That operation was undertaken by myself and Christopher Romero.”

Tim’s jaw nearly fell open. _What?_

“You’re telling me the eyewitness who gave a description nearly exactly matching Sarah Geller was incorrect.”

“That seems to be the case, yes. I don’t think we look all that much alike, but it was very dark, as I recall.”

Was Delia really trying to take the fall for the both of them?

“If you were there, tell me how it went down.”

Reed pushed away from the glass and stood by the table, pulling notes out of the folder; the crime scene report, Tim assumed. Reed read through it as Delia gave a nearly perfect play-by-play of the events of that night, only with Kathryn’s role performed by herself and Tim’s filled by the dead-and-dirty FBI Agent Christopher Romero.

Delia’s delivery had been perfectly rehearsed; she’d expected this to happen.

Tim was too cautious to truly hope, but it was difficult not to feel optimistic as he watched Reed’s eyes fly across the page, the edges of his mouth turning down a little more with each word out of Delia.

Tim’s ears perked up as Delia mentioned opening the back of the truck and he watched Reed’s expression shift intently. “Could you repeat that?”

Delia smirked, “I opened the back of the truck to find dozens of human trafficking victims.”

Tim could see Reed struggling; he hadn’t expected that.

“What happened to them?”

“You tell me, Agent Reed.”

Tim delighted in the few moments it took for Reed to compose himself. Eventually, he flipped the folder closed and tossed it back onto the metal table.

“Ms. Hughes, would you like to tell me how you managed to call the Ranger Station from an out-of-state payphone if you were in the park?”

“Who says I made the call?”

“Then who did?”

“A friend.”

“Sarah Geller?”

“She isn’t my friend; as you mentioned, she fucking shot me.”

Tim couldn’t help it. He smirked.

Maybe he’d been too hard on Delia.

#

Tim felt a little smug while he waited for Reed to return to his office. He couldn’t help it. He sat with his back to the door and when he heard Reed enter, he said without looking at him, “You know, if you wanted to accuse me of a felony, you could have done it over the phone.”

Reed stopped short, yanking at his tie to loosen it with a cynical grin. “Where would the fun have been in that?” As the man yanked off his blazer and rolled his sleeves up, he collapsed into his desk chair. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad I don’t have to arrest you.”

“Oh, don’t get all sentimental on me, Matthew.” Reed laughed that strange, high-pitched laugh of his and Tim chuckled a little, too. “So what now?”

“Nothing, now. You’re done. With Delia’s…” he hesitated, and Tim knew Reed didn’t quite believe her, “ _confession_ , there’s nothing else for me to do but process her and hand her case over to the lawyers. Assuming she doesn’t have as much political pull as she’d like me to believe, she’ll be going to prison for a long time. If she does…”

Reed didn’t need to elaborate; there was no way to know who would put their necks out for Delia. Tim had a feeling she had powerful allies. It would have been nearly impossible for her to operate undetected for as long as she had thus far, otherwise.

“What about Geller?”

Reed’s smirk made Tim’s stomach flip in a way he did not appreciate. “Why so interested in the fate of Sarah Geller?”

“Well, she did save my life,” Tim said, “I feel like maybe I owe her a little empathy.”

“Sure, Gutterson, you keep telling yourself that.” Reed leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling as he answered. Tim thought he could almost see the synapses firing in his brain as he pulled everything together. “Without Boone, without Anderson and with her cooperation with Vasquez… her helping you…”

Tim waited as Reed calibrated.

Reed’s sigh was long, exaggerated, and defeated. “Honestly, aside from fleeing the Marshals, which is a misdemeanor, I don’t think there’s a whole lot that will stick. She did kill that girl in lockup, but that was clearly in defense of her own life, so she’ll probably get a light sentence there, too.”

“You think I’ll need to testify?”

Reed returned his gaze to the man across from him. “Only if you want to. There were plenty of witnesses in the garage, and others at her house. I’ve got Romero’s report about her involvement with Solkov and your role in that operation.”

“What about Hughes?”

“If she goes to trial, you’ll likely be called as a witness. As I said, though, I’m not wholly confident that will be my decision to make.”

There was a long, firm silence and Tim realized any other questions he had would need to remain unanswered because they would lie too close to the truth of the matter. He needed to wrap his brain around all the new lies and half-truths before he trusted himself to say anything.

So instead, Tim stood from his chair and leaned over the desk, extending his hand to Reed, who clasped it for a firm shake.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Agent Reed. Next time you want to see me, why not just ask me out for dinner and drinks?”

Tim flinched at that awful laugh as he stood back up. “I’m not sure my husband would approve, but he might let me make an exception.” Tim’s eyebrows shot up a fraction. “You are exactly his type.”

Tim smiled bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck. “You need anything else, let me know. But honestly, I hope I never see your name on my phone again.”

“The feeling is mutual, Deputy Gutterson.”

Tim was almost out of the office when he turned back around. “Reed?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think happened to those victims? From Boone?”

Reed’s lighthearted expression fell, replaced with a dark and brooding stare. “I don’t know. With Romero and Anderson both dead, I’m not sure we ever will.”

Tim nodded, disheartened but resigned, and he continued out of the office, tossing Reed a half-hearted wave over his shoulder as he left.

#

That night, as Tim sat back on his couch, beer in one hand and remote in the other, flipping between college basketball games, his mind roved over everything he’d witnessed during the day. How Delia had not only protected Kathryn, but him, too.

There hadn’t been any need to do so. He knew that much. And he wondered again about the strange and intimate relationship between the two women. Was it possible Delia had protected him for Kathryn’s sake? If so, what were the implications?

It made more sense than the alternative; that Delia protected him because she found him either charming or competent. He was relatively certain that given the chance, Delia would gladly put a bullet between his eyes.

As he took a sip of his lager, Tim wondered if maybe it was better if he never knew the answers. Better if he just turned around and walked away from the whole goddamn mess of a thing and let it drift away in his rearview like the pieces of that stupid CD Kathryn had left him.

Still, when he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, he saw them: baleful faces gleaming in the pale light of the evening, shivering and terrified in the back of the truck. And then he saw her; eyes fierce and determined as she pressed her phone into one girl’s hand in the dark.

He could still hear the despondence in her voice when she’d admitted she couldn’t track what happened to them. The rage he’d felt when Anderson had laughed about it.

It was never easy, having to let go of something you cared about. Tim knew that very well, and he was sure Kathryn did, too.

But no matter how many times you dealt with that disappointment, there was no changing the fact that there were children being hurt somewhere because they had failed to protect them. An open case he would never be able to close because it wasn’t even officially a case—and it especially wasn’t his.

He turned off the TV, no longer interested in the hollow escapism it offered. He wanted to sit with his failure. Sit with the guilt. Needed to let it course through him and light up every cell, so he could feel the blazing pain of his shortcomings.

Tim didn’t think he’d ever stop wondering about it; assumed that some small amount of real estate in his brain would forever be taken up by those anonymous faces. Maybe Reed would figure it out. Maybe there would be some other task force somewhere, one day, that would do a better job than Tim Gutterson. Capable men and women who could bring justice to those victims where he and Kathryn had been unable to.

As he sat in the dark, sinking into a bottomless pit of his incompetence, he could only hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there, my friends! I hope you are all safe & well (and if you live in the U.S., I hope you got out today & voted)!


	26. In the End

Tim had to admit, Rodney Dunham was an interesting man. And far less creepy than Robert Quarles, which was definitely a point in his favor. Tim couldn’t help liking the grizzled old pot dealer and his gruff exterior a little. Besides, he’d helped them figure out what in the hell Dickie Bennet—idiot savant extraordinaire—was planning, and that was valuable.

Tim was just finishing up his report about the incident at the Bennett general store when Art stuck his head out of his office. “Tim! Come here a sec,” and then he was gone, expecting Tim to come bounding close behind.

Tim held in a groan. He wanted to unplug. Wanted to go home, get pleasantly drunk on his couch, and fall asleep listening to the drone of late-night infomercials in order to drown out the chaos of the past few weeks.

It had become a nightly ritual, dreaming in his underwear to the dulcet tones of Tempur-Pedic testimonials and St. Jude’s fundraising drives. It was certainly better than crawling into his bed and feeling like he’d sunk into a black hole.

What the hell could Art possibly need now? Tim had been at his desk nearly all damn day finishing up paperwork. He’d barely taken a piss. Couldn’t Art have bothered him at any other moment? Fuck, if Art asked him to stay late again, Tim was going to lose his goddamn—

“Tim!”

“Coming, Chief.” Resigned, Tim saved his progress and shot a look at Raylan, who was smirking at him from beneath his hat. “Screw you, Raylan.”

At least it was satisfying to shut Art’s office door on Raylan’s whiny, “Oh come on, I didn’t even say nothin’!”

Tim found Art leaned back in his chair, smiling, with a bourbon already in hand and one waiting for Tim.

“Uh-oh. Who died?”

“Nobody. Yet.”

Tim took his seat and a very conservative taste of the liquor, waiting for Art to elaborate.

He found he was quite glad for the drink because it gave him something to do. Hopefully Art hadn’t noticed the way his right knee started to jiggle impatiently or how his shoulders had tensed in anticipation.

All Tim wanted was for Art to shut the hell up so he could throw on his coat and start driving.

#

Tim moved with preternatural speed. Raylan shot him a strange and accusatory glance as he turned off his computer with an angry jab of his finger and mumbled some half-assed “’Night” to everyone or nobody—he honestly didn’t care.

The time it took him to drive the fifteen minutes to her house felt like less than a moment.

He had a half-cocked excuse at the ready, but by the time Tim reached Kathryn’s lawn, the reasoning he’d concocted melted away and he found he didn’t much care.

He was slow walking up to her door. He lingered on the lawn, fiddling with the file in his hands and admiring the bluebells and the marigolds, even as they stood brittle and half-dead, their colors all but faded. Once he knocked, there would be no turning back. Eventually, though, he could defer no longer. He could feel Kathryn watching him from the living room, but he reached up to knock anyway; partially out of politeness but mostly as a force of habit.

Kathryn yanked the door open before he could even bring his knuckles to the surface. "You gonna come in, Deputy, or did you just come here to admire my dead flowers?" she asked. 

Tim smirked, shoving his free hand in his pocket and taking his first tentative step up her stairs. “I was just checking out Charlotte over there,” Tim nodded his head in the direction of the orb weaver, which was now nestled in the middle of the garden bed, tucked safely away from the hazardous front door.

“Mm, she’s a beaut, isn’t she?”

Tim didn’t think it would be prudent to say he thought she was fucking gross, not to mention creepy, so he made some noncommittal noise low in his throat as he walked inside. When he brushed passed Kathryn into her living room, she was so close that he could smell her shampoo. The pleasant scent didn’t last long, however, because his nostrils were soon assaulted by the stringent stench of disinfectant.

The living room reeked of bleach and Tim imagined that an idle, trapped Kathryn must be a danger to every dust mote and grease stain in the house, especially after all the time she’d spent in dingy, disgusting places prior to her return home.

Kathryn closed the door and locked it.

Tim marched to the center of the room and turned with some amount of effort to face his host. He was nervous about seeing her, and he rested his hand leisurely against his holster, despite himself. He hoped she wouldn't notice, or at least that she would understand.

It had been weeks since they’d last looked at each other, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether they were still on speaking terms. He was, after all, the reason Delia was gone. He was the reason Kathryn had shot her.

Since his trip to the Louisville FBI office, Tim had not been kept apprised of Delia’s situation. He assumed whatever was happening was above his pay grade. Or maybe his clearance level. All he knew was she was still in FBI custody, and he didn’t think he’d ever learn more than that. The thought of letting Kathryn down by not being able to give her the answers she craved made his stomach twist painfully.

Kathryn turned toward him and crossed her arms over her chest. Tim couldn’t tell whether it was a defensive reflex or one of discomfort. She was barefoot, wearing dark jeans and an Iron Maiden t-shirt with a hole in one shoulder. Seeing her in her own clothes again made Tim feel much more comfortable than the horrible inmate jumpsuit or the hospital gown he’d last seen her in.

“What can I do for you, Deputy Gutterson?"

Pulled from his thoughts, Tim cleared his throat and dropped the folder in his hands onto the coffee table without preamble. He watched as Kathryn’s expression changed from one of plastered pleasantness to one of tentative befuddlement.

“Why do you have that?” she asked as she stared at the “PERSONAL” scrawled in her own loose handwriting.

“Took it by accident, thought you might like it back.”

Kathryn’s posture was rigid and tense. She knew what was in there, and she wanted to know if he’d looked at it; whether he’d figured out her real name and her birthdate and where she was from.

Instead of answering her unspoken questions, Tim’s eyes inadvertently flicked to her left ankle, where he could see the little black box of her monitor peeking out under the cuff of her jeans. She tucked her foot behind her other leg self-consciously, trying to hide it.

“Drink?” she asked, and Tim watched as she walked to the coffee table, where he noticed there were already two glasses. He was glad she wasn’t going to force him to elaborate; he wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to reveal how much he knew about her.

Instead of the file, they both focused on the clear liquor Kathryn tilted into both tumblers from a chilled bottle. The label was turned away from Tim, so he didn’t have a clue what she was giving him. Had he really stood so long outside she’d had time to swing by her freezer and her bar in the next room? He’d definitely spent too much time staring at that ugly spider.

Tim took the drink when she offered it to him. “Thanks,” he said.

“I don’t have any bourbon, I’m afraid.”

They each took a long sip in the ensuing silence, neither ready to speak. And then Tim nearly hacked his left lung out onto Kathryn’s living room floor.

He didn’t appreciate her amused laugh one bit. “Jesus, Kathryn. This is a lovely vintage of Robitussin. What is it? A 2008?”

She was still laughing a little when she answered, “2006, actually.” Her eyes danced at him over the rim of her rocks glass and Tim swallowed, regretting his decision to get in his car before thinking it through.

Why the fuck had he come here?

It had been months since he and Kathryn had had a real conversation. There was no reason for him to be spending his time thinking about her, or about whether she was okay. He could have just gone on living without knowing.

He could have; maybe he should have. Maybe it was selfish for him to have come here at all. What could he possibly expect from the woman who’d lost everything because of his inadequacy?

After all the time since his last visit, it felt strange, being in her house. Especially with her here, watching him. Like stepping into a movie he'd found on TCM. He wondered if maybe the end credits were about to roll, and his time with Kathryn would be over with little more flourish than a "The End" splashed across a blank, dark screen.

He probably would have laughed at the melodramatic thought if it didn’t make him so goddamn sad.

Tim had been surprised and also a little comforted when he discovered that Reed had, in fact, understood his cryptic suggestion in the parking garage and offered Kathryn WITSEC. Reed had suggested killing off Sarah Geller and letting Kathryn start a new life as someone else—someplace else. It would have been a new beginning for her.

Of course, Kathryn, the stubborn ass, had refused.

As far as Tim was concerned, that had been a huge mistake. She’d ratted out at least a dozen high-level drug dealers and human traffickers with ties to organized crime. She’d saved countless victims in doing so, even if they’d never been able to track down the individuals from Daniel Boone; a thought that remained raw and ragged like a wound. Still, it was only a matter of time before someone as bad or worse than Mark Dawson found her and killed her. Probably after a prolonged period of torture. Tim finished his drink in an attempt to scrub his brain of the thought.

Maybe she was cleaning the house to sell it and move. He could hope, anyway.

The uncertainty of Kathryn’s future was yet another reason he shouldn’t have come. He was just setting himself up for disappointment when she inevitably died in some horrible, brutal way or disappeared in the middle of the night to some undisclosed location.

Tim looked at Kathryn, shifting uncomfortably on her bare feet. He wished her shoulders would relax because they looked like they were about to reach her ears. Seeing the tension fizzle in her body left an empty pang in his stomach because he knew he was personally the cause of at least some of it.

Kathryn’s eyes danced across his features, almost as if she was trying to decipher some hidden code in his words or appearance. Like she didn't understand why he was here or what she was supposed to do. For a moment, Tim was afraid she was going to press him for information on Delia.

Sometimes at night, he would wake in a cold sweat, convinced she was in his room again, after dreaming of all the things she could have told Reed or his superiors after Tim had left Louisville.

Tim didn’t know how to tell Kathryn the only reason he was here tonight of all nights was because the last of her paperwork at the Lexington office had been processed earlier in the day. According to Art, Sarah Geller’s case was officially no longer under the purview of the U.S. Marshals Service. Tim had wanted to see her earlier, but thought it important to wait until there was no way his presence could be misconstrued or jeopardize her parole and the deal she’d struck with Reed and Vasquez.

Tim thought it had been the noble thing to do, but it had been a goddamn lonely, distressing, _righteous_ move on his part. And now he thought maybe it would have been better if he’d just stayed away entirely. Forever.

Selfishly, though, he was glad to finally see her. In her own clothes, in her own house, with no tubes or wires or broken bones.

Just new scars, hidden somewhere under her t-shirt.

Tim didn’t know how long he’d been lost in his thoughts. But he realized it must have been too long when suddenly, Kathryn was moving fiercely in his direction.

His body stiffened instinctively to absorb whatever blow she was about to deliver before he could stop himself. Instead, she threw her arms around his neck so forcefully that she knocked him back a step. Kathryn was standing fully up on her toes, stretching so she could tuck her face into the curve of his neck. He wrapped his arms around her waist like a reflex, pulling her the last few centimeters closer, and he relished the feeling of her body pressed against his.

Kathryn’s breath was warm on his throat. He had to steel himself to keep from shivering as the sensation washed over him. And then she whispered, so quietly he could barely hear it, even this close, “It’s so good to see you.”

Tim loved the way she felt, and he never wanted it to end. He wished momentarily he could freeze time and just live in her embrace forever—safe and calm and just himself in a way he felt he couldn’t be anywhere else. With anyone else.

Disappointment swelled in his chest when she began to pull away, but she only made it a few inches before she stopped and looked up into his eyes. He peered down at her, trying unsuccessfully to read her expression. He thought of a hundred different things he could say, but none of them felt like the right one, so he bit his tongue and remained silent. Then she leaned up and kissed him, taking him by surprise yet again.

How was it Kathryn was always able to catch him unawares?

Tim kissed her back eagerly. Her touch had been tentative and unsure, so he made certain his response left no room for doubt.

He thought he had come to Kathryn’s home to ask forgiveness; he had even hoped, perhaps, for friendship. But this... this was better. This was what he'd truly wanted, if he was being honest with himself.

That honesty was something he was still getting used to.

Kathryn's fingers flew up and tangled in his hair, and he kept his hands pressed firmly into the small of her back in order to hold her steady against him. His chest was on fire and his mouth could barely keep up with hers. She started walking, pushing him backward, and he hit the far wall hard enough to make the pictures jump off it for a moment. It hurt, but he didn't care because it was worth it to have her safely tucked in his arms. Worth it to feel her wanting him the same way he wanted her.

She moved her hands from his hair and started to peel his jacket back from his shoulders. He broke away from her just long enough to whip it off and throw it in the general direction of her couch, though he had no idea if it made it that far and he didn't care.

She was about to kiss him again when he placed his hands against her face and held her still. Kathryn’s cheeks were flushed and she was breathing heavily, and he could see the same desire he felt inside clearly written in her expression. He knew, now, not to take that openness for granted because it was never guaranteed.

Tim ran one thumb over her lips and traced her cheek with the back of his other hand, savoring the moment and everything it had taken to get here. His fingers gently caressed the place where he’d caused that dark purple bruise, no longer visible along the side of her face, but still fresh in his mind. Kathryn’s strong, sure fingers traced the place where he’d been cut by Delia above his left eye and her expression flickered from lust to sadness for just a moment.

Then she reached up and raked the backs of her fingernails through his hair, electrifying his scalp, and Tim groaned in appreciation before drawing her lips back to his in an obstinate kiss.

Slowly, Tim removed his right hand from Kathryn's face, tracing her neck and her shoulder before trailing down her arm to her left hip. He threaded his thumb through the belt loop of her jeans and used it to turn her body away from him, directing her backward toward her bedroom, still kissing her.

#

Once they entered the bedroom, Tim kicked the door shut so no prying eyes from the backyard or the street beyond could see inside. He wanted Kathryn all to himself.

His fingers deftly undid the button and zipper of her jeans, and she shook her hips enticingly to coax them down to her ankles. He was hesitant to let her go, but he pulled away in order to remove his badge, holster, and backup firearm while she stepped out of her denim and pulled her t-shirt over her head. Tim kicked off his shoes and tugged away his belt before stepping toward her once again. Even the ankle monitor’s persistent green light blinking up at him could not dampen his desire and excitement.

Kathryn stood in briefs and a plain sports bra. Tim almost chuckled at the utility of the garments; he wondered if she even owned lingerie, or if everything in her drawers was full coverage and black. His eyes raked slowly up her form and he noticed the scar on her abdomen left from her tussle in the woods of Daniel Boone.

How had he missed it the last time? Had he really been so focused on his own needs that he hadn’t seen it?

He noticed, too, the new scar on her shoulder from Dawson’s bullet; an ugly, twisted thing that nearly matched his own left shoulder scar. Like they both belonged together, equal parts of a painful, broken set.

Tim realized suddenly that Kathryn was much too far away from him, so he took a step toward her, watching her chest as her breathing sped up the closer he got. "Tell me what you want," he said, and her eyes flicked up to him, surprised and maybe a little defiant.

"What?" Kathryn licked her lips and took another step backward, tripping lightly over an errant shoe. Tim smiled at her sudden awkwardness. It didn’t suit her.

"Tell me how you want me to touch you,” he said, taking another step closer, his body now only a few inches from her own. Close enough to smell her shampoo again.

He reached out a finger to trace the shoulder scar gently and was mollified when she shivered slightly against his touch.

“I… Like the last time,” she stuttered, but she looked down at his feet as she did so, needlessly embarrassed.

Tim could admit to himself that he was enjoying this far more than he should. For once, he was the one keeping her on _her_ toes. It helped that Tim found her honesty and vulnerability incredibly arousing.

“Like this?” he asked, moving his finger from her scar to trace the curve of her waist slowly, trailing his fingers in swirling motions back up to her neck before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a lingering touch. He was glad the awful black had faded back to the soft auburn color he liked so much.

She nodded.

Tim leaned forward and trailed light kisses across her collarbone and up her neck, pressing his tongue against the spot where her jaw curved back toward her ear, letting his teeth graze carefully against her skin. “Like that?”

“Yes,” she said, her breathing increasingly ragged and irregular.

Tim moved his hands slowly across her hips until they rested against her back. “You want me to be gentle?”

He could feel her body stiffen, and then melt into his embrace. Goosebumps raced across her arms and Tim smiled.

He leaned close and whispered huskily in her ear. “You want me to _make love_ to you?”

Kathryn shoved Tim away—hard—and he stumbled a few steps backward as he released her. He couldn’t help the amused chuckle that escaped him, but the sound only seemed to make Kathryn more defensive.

“Don’t make fun of me, Deputy,” she said, and the hurt look she tried to hide almost made him feel guilty for teasing her.

Tim attempted to rein in the wolfish grin spreading across his face before it became something utterly feral, though he did so with only mild success. “No, ma’am, I’m not.”

He watched with deep satisfaction as Kathryn’s expression melted into something less hurt and more unsure as he allowed the implications of his statement to linger in the air between them.

It was then that Tim resolved to take his time.

He enjoyed the soft, surprised sound Kathryn made as he pulled her against him once more. With one hand at the small of her back and the other in her hair, he lowered her onto the bed beneath him. As they tumbled backward, Kathryn greedily wrapped her arms and legs around his body, holding him tight and tugging his lower lip carefully with her teeth.

She pulled at his shirt while he removed her bra, and they explored each other's bodies as if they were both brand new, letting their fingers trace scars and tattoos with softness and intention.

Tim trailed kisses down her neck as his fingers traced their way over the bare skin of her thigh, and he enjoyed that, for once, there was no rush. No impending doom or death waiting for them on the opposite side of the door. No place they needed to be in the morning. No one they needed to chase or evade. Nowhere for her to disappear to, even if she could take the monitor off.

Finally, it was just the two of them and nothing else.

Every touch felt overdue, like he'd been waiting his whole dumb life for it. He felt like some heartsick teenager, giddy and light as his stomach fluttered each time she gasped or moaned beneath him. And when she told him she was ready for "more," he didn't hesitate.

Tim had never thought much about his name. It was plain and simple; a straightforward pronunciation that meant he'd never had to worry about a teacher or C.O. butchering it during rollcall. But the way Kathryn breathed the single syllable repeatedly against his ear made him think it might be the best sound he'd ever heard. He was reminded of how few times she'd actually used his first name when speaking to him, and he was glad his touch could coax it from her now.

Tim could admit to himself that he hoped to hear his name on her lips more in the future. In this moment, he realized he wanted to hear her say his name endlessly.

No more _ma’am_ or _Deputy_. Just Kathryn and Tim.

#

After they'd finished, they took turns showering and Tim smiled when he realized she'd left a fresh Dollar Store toothbrush out for him on the sink without asking. She was already tucked into bed when he came back in, and he hesitated briefly in the doorway. This was the last moment he could feasibly leave without complicating their relationship even further. Despite the way he felt about Kathryn, he wasn't sure he was ready for what the alternative would mean.

For her, and for him.

Finally, Tim tugged on his underwear and climbed in beside her. He was done hesitating or second guessing; this was what he wanted. Kathryn was already half-asleep when he pulled her hips back against his and wrapped his arm around her middle.

When she rolled over to press her face against his chest instead, the movement sent a warm flush through him.

He looked down at her and realized she was wearing the stupid Grizzlies shirt again and he almost laughed. It was such a small thing, but he thought he knew, now, how much it truly meant.

Without warning, Tim’s brain rushed through every potential bad thing that could happen now. Delia, the Russians, Reed… there were too many unmanageable factors; there was no way he could account for them all. He could feel his stomach churn as a warning pressure began building behind his eyelids.

But then Kathryn ran a hand through his hair, and some of the overwhelming anxiety eased, replaced with a pleasant tingle that raced along his scalp and down his spine. He looked down at her, expecting to see a concerned frown. But her eyes were still closed; she was still half-asleep.

And even half-dreaming, she was still there. Still comforting him.

Tim pushed every other thought from his mind with effort, deciding that uncertainty could wait. His lips brushed against Kathryn’s forehead because tonight, this was all that mattered. So he held her close and slept without dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh... le fin!
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who read this story and its predecessor, especially ktredshoes & Afiakate, whose consistent comments definitely kept me going on more than one occasion. You both rule, and I can't thank you enough for all your positive feedback.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this adventure courtesy of resident badasses Tim & Kathryn. It's been a lot of fun to live in the world of Justified & I only hope I've done it some _justice_.


	27. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is a purely self-indulgent extra mini-chapter because I really enjoy writing Raylan picking on Tim.

Raylan wasn’t entirely sure why he’d volunteered to return Sarah Geller’s belongings to her at her home. Maybe he was just looking for a distraction from Robert Quarles and the Dixie Mafia. Maybe he’d been genuinely curious about how she was doing. She had once saved his life, after all.

Whatever the reason, Raylan was glad he had offered to make the trip as soon as he pulled up. He stopped just short of the woman’s single-story house when he recognized the all too familiar form of Tim Gutterson standing awkwardly on her front lawn.

Raylan threw his car in park and smiled, wondering how the junior Deputy was possibly going to explain his presence once Raylan called him out for it. He’d wait, he decided, for the right opening to present itself because this was too good an opportunity to pass up.

He watched as Tim knocked on the front door and Geller let him in. Raylan found himself hoping that maybe he’d get to watch her slap Tim right across the face. He didn’t know why, honestly, but for some reason, he thought it would be fairly well-deserved and extremely hilarious.

Raylan was surprised, however, when Geller offered Tim a drink instead. He couldn’t imagine ever considering the idea of hosting the person who had put him behind bars, however briefly. He found himself glad that the front of Geller’s house was all windows, so he could watch the meeting unfold without hindrance.

He was sure he was in for quite the show.

They talked for a while and Raylan got so bored waiting for something to happen that he got out of his car and brought her bag of belongings with him because he figured he might have to intervene if he wanted this exchange to be as entertaining as he’d hoped.

He was imagining the irritated look on Tim’s face when he knocked on the door when he instead dropped the bag, and his hand flew to his holster.

Geller was all but sprinting across the room at Tim, and Raylan was sure she was about to throttle him—or worse—at which point he’d have to step in as a matter of principle.

But just as he took the first few steps and was about to start running up to her door, he watched as she wrapped her arms around Tim’s neck in a tight hug. Not a punch or slap in sight.

And then Raylan watched as Tim Gutterson twined his arms around her waist, holding her in what appeared to be a warm and intimate embrace.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Raylan had enjoyed teasing Tim about Sarah Geller. He thought it was fun to point out the fact that the younger man was clearly attracted to her. And after he’d watched them work together during the standoff at the safehouse, Raylan thought it was obvious she harbored some affection for Tim as well.

But Raylan hadn’t quite expected to be so right about their entanglement. And it felt good to be right—really, really good.

Raylan’s amused smile turned into an expression of genuine shock when Geller leaned back and pulled Tim into what appeared to be a very familiar kiss.

Raylan knew he should look away. Knew he should get back in his car and drive home; deliver Geller’s belongings to her another day. He knew this was a private moment he wasn’t supposed to be a part of.

But he figured if they’d wanted privacy, they wouldn’t be making out in full view of the floor-to-ceiling windows of Geller’s living room. Or that she’d at least have installed some curtains.

Raylan was nearly mesmerized by the sight before him, as Tim and Geller tangled passionately with one another, eventually resulting in Tim being pressed up against the far wall of Geller’s living room as he discarded his jacket.

What an interesting turn of events, indeed.

Even more remarkable than the obvious sexual attraction between them was the tender way Tim was looking at Geller now, running his hands along her cheeks as he gently and carefully studied her face.

Tim Gutterson didn’t just want to fuck Sarah Geller. No, Raylan could see very clearly there was something much more to it than that because he’d never seen Tim look so sincere and unguarded as he did now, gazing fondly down at the woman in front of him.

“Ho-ly shit,” Raylan said, and he watched the two lovers snake their way down the short hall toward Geller’s bedroom before he leaned back against his car, arms crossed as he processed what he’d just seen.

Raylan knew he should be the better man and pretend like he’d never been here. He knew that a true friend would ignore the intense desire he had to rub his newfound knowledge in Tim’s face.

It was a good thing Raylan and Tim weren’t exactly pals.

#

When Tim walked out to his car the next morning, he was surprised to find a brown paper bag on the roof. Confused, he pulled it down and peered inside, half-expecting to find some drunkard’s forgotten groceries.

What he found instead was much worse. Sarah Geller’s possessions, which as far as he knew had been in the custody of the Lexington Marshals’ office when Tim had left there the night before, stared back at him from inside the bag.

Someone from the office— _his_ office—had been outside Kathryn’s home sometime between last night and this morning. Tim’s head whipped around, looking for any sign of one of his co-workers, but finding nothing.

His mind turned over and over, trying to decide which of the available options would be least detrimental to his career and well-being. Rachel probably wouldn’t be too bad, even if she was judgmental, and Nelson would just make stupid dad jokes about it; Tim was sure he could buy the older man off with a few painful happy hour excursions if he had to. But Art or Raylan? He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

And then he pulled his plaid shirt, still in the ziplock it had been stored in in evidence, out of the bag.

There, written in black sharpie across the plastic was a message:

_Didn’t want to interrupt. Make sure your girlfriend gets these. Kept the bottle for myself._

Tim read the note a half dozen times, willing his brain to see something else in the taunting black ink.

But it didn’t matter how many times he reread it, the words remained exactly the same.

Raylan Givens had seen him with Sarah Geller, and that was definitely the worst possible scenario he could think of.

“ _Fuck_.”


End file.
